












































































& ^ ■ 



Class ^ 

Rnnk rB 












' M ' ■ ' I 

. I ‘ 

I. 


t. 

. > 


\ 


"i! 



■I 

W' 

( t 


I '< r 

I - ' 





















* */' 



1 


COMMENCEMENT 










COMMENCEMENT 

By Ernest Brace 



Publishers 

HARPER & BROTHERS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 
MDCCCCXXIV 











V 


COMMENCEMENT 


Copyright, 1924 
By Harper & Brothers 
Printed in the U. S. A. 


First Edition 

G-Y 


AUG 21 1924 



©C1A800554 




TO 

V. B. R. B. 







COMMENCEMENT 














CHAPTER ONE 


Long drawn out, quavering, a minor saxo¬ 
phone note cut through the restlessness of the 
campus trees. The note fell, absorbed in the 
blare of a comet and the monotony of drums. 
For another college class the four years of 
mental and athletic endeavor were at an end. 
The rite was being celebrated. Sam Kugler’s 
jazz band and a crescent moon assisted. To¬ 
morrow, two hundred young men were, as one 
speaker had fervently expressed it, “going out 
to add another tier to the walls of that vast 
edifice, civilization.” But to-night the class 
swayed under the sensuous promptings of Sam 
Kugler and his saxophone; or, beneath the 
campus trees, whisperingly discussed the vague 
future charged with ideals. 

“Suppose we take a walk around outside, 
Leonora.” 

“It is awfully warm in here, isn’t it?” 

They walked across the gymnasium and 
down the stone steps to the gravel pathway. 
Here, without discussion, they turned and set 
off across the grass toward a group of tall elms. 

“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” Gregory 
Thrumm was looking at Leonora’s profile as he 
spoke. He found pleasure in studying the 





2 COMMENCEMENT 

thick coils of dark hair which were drawn 
across her forehead and over her ears. 

“It is lovely.” 

“Let’s sit on that bench over there. He 
led Leonora in the direction he had indicated. 
He held her arm gently and studied the ground 
ahead of them. 

“Are you enjoying the dance?” He sat 
beside her, but nearer the opposite end of the 
bench. 

‘'Oh, yes, a lot.’’ 

Gregory lit a cigarette and sat staring at a 
yellow Chinese lantern swinging behind a 
black tangle of shrubbery. “Well,” he said, 
finally, “it’s all over now—college, I mean.” 

“Are you sorry*?” 

“I don’t know, hardly. I don’t think so. 
I wonder what my job will be like.” 

“You were awfully fortunate, I think, to 
find one so soon.” 

“Yes, I suppose I was. I can’t help dread¬ 
ing it. I don’t want to become a machine. 
Even though a man has to work hard, it seems 
as if he ought to be able to keep alive—not to 
be just a machine.” He rubbed his hands to¬ 
gether nervously. He wondered whether his 
words sounded as puerile to Leonora as they 
did to him. It was annoying that a sentiment 
as sincere as this one should become grotesque 
when expressed. He looked at her. The 
crescent moon was pointing up behind her hair. 


COMMENCEMENT 


3 

He recalled descriptions of Diana—Diana the 
chaste—the huntress. ‘‘Somehow most every¬ 
one seems to go under,” he continued, depre- 
catingly. “You know what I mean. That’s 
one thing I won’t do. . . . It’s funny, isn’t 
it? I wonder how graduation came to be 
called commencement? It’s a beginning and 
an end combined.” 

“It’s really a beginning, though, isn’t it? 
All the rest, everything before that, is more 
preparation than anything else.” 

“But not merely a preparation for business. 
It’s a preparation for life, and business should 
be only one phase of that. If life were only 

making money-” He spread his hands out 

before him. 

A faint breeze stirred the leaves above them. 
Somewhere, the other side of the trees, a girl 
laughed. Gregory’s eyes followed the sweep 
of Leonora’s cheek. 

“Leonora, I-” he jerked his hand toward 

hers and clutched her fingers—“I love you. I 

love you. I-” He swept his arms about 

her and found her lips. . . . “You haven’t 

told me you love me, yet. Tell me- 

please,” he begged. 

Leonora spoke the words shyly, and again 
Gregory drew her into his arms. 

“We may have to wait awhile. We will. 
I’m only starting in business, but I don’t think 
it ’ll take awfully long.” 






4 COMMENCEMENT 

“Fm sure you’ll succeed quickly. You did 
so well here in college.” 

‘‘I know, but still that’s different.” 

“But you mustn’t get discouraged now.” 
She studied the toe of her slipper. 

“I do love you so much! I—oh, I don’t 
know what to say, except that. I shan’t mind 
starting in work right away now.” 

Leonora smiled appreciatively and permitted 
Gregory once more to demonstrate his affec¬ 
tion. 

From a high, piercing shriek, the saxophone 
swooped slowly down upon a quavering, minor 
note. 

Gregory Thrumm plodded up the steps be¬ 
fore a square, forbidding stone house. On the 
central panel of the door was a shield embla¬ 
zoned with three Greek letters in gold. Gregory 
paused and studied the letters. It was a long 
time since he had been told that it would be 
his duty as a freshman to polish that shield 
every morning. How quickly the glamor of 
those days had paled. The mystery had been 
pierced and observed dispassionately. The 
gods, the loyalties of the past four years had 
dropped silently to the limbo of Mother Gnose 
and Santa Claus. They had not collapsed sud¬ 
denly; their passing had been as silent, as in¬ 
appreciable as the movement of a clock hand. 
There would be new ones. 


COMMENCEMENT 


5 

It was characteristic of Gregory that, at the 
peak of an achievement, instead of relishing his 
success, he should moodily contemplate the 
path ahead, the next ascent. The previous 
night, after his easy conquest of Leonora’s af¬ 
fections, he had left the dance and trudged 
across the campus and back. He had felt the 
soft warmth of the night. He had observed 
the cleanly cut crescent of moon. But even as 
he walked in romance, there had fallen upon 
him the faint chill of threatening responsibility. 
He had returned quickly to the dance, his hands 
plunged into his trouser pockets, a slight groove 
between his eyebrows. 

When Gregory entered the long, low-ceil- 
inged drawing-room of the fraternity house, he 
found James Seffem there alone reading a mag¬ 
azine. 

“Hello, Jimmy!” 

“Hello, Greg! When are you leaving^?” 

“To-morrow.” Gregory dropped in one 
chair and stretched his feet out upon another. 

Jimmy yawned and threw his magazine on 
the table beside him. “Well, Greg, the big 
bluff is over. We can’t be supported any 
longer while we store our young minds with 
knowledge.” 

“I’ve got a job.” 

“When did that happen?” 

“Got a letter yesterday morning.” 

“What sort of office are you going to dust?” 


6 


COMMENCEMENT 


“Advertising. Fm going to write advertise¬ 
ments to start.” 

“To start. I know what that means.” 
Jimmy pinched the crease in his trousers. “The 
world is yours if you report bright and early 
every morning and work till you can’t stand up. 
How much are they going to give you—to 
start?” 

“Twenty-five a week.” 

“Not bad. At the end of ten years’ faithful 
service you’ll probably get thirty—or fired.” 

“Have you got anything better to do?” 

“No, nothing at all. I’m going to look 
around a bit first—let whoever hires me feel 
he’s found a priceless possession.” 

“Well, I’m satisfied.” 

“Yes, it’s all right for you. You’ll probably 
make good at it. I shouldn’t care to be tied up 
at a desk all day long.” Jimmy yawned and 
stretched. “That’s not my sort of work. You 
always liked literary stuff, anyway.” 

Gregory found the trend of the conversation 
distasteful. “What time did you come in last 
night, Jimmy? I didn’t hear you.” 

“I haven’t the faintest idea. I got here 
safely, that’s all. My cup of grief was so full it 
had to be emptied, so I went out and did it. 
Look at me. You’ve got honors, a job, a glori¬ 
ous future telling people what to buy. I 
haven’t any means of even earning my living. 


COMMENCEMENT 


7 

And—oh, well, I have another reason for being 
desperate. Suicide is all that’s left. 

“/ got them phoneyy 
Ever las tin* groany^ 

Inescapable bloooooesT 

Jimmy sang the description of his mood in a 
soft tenor voice, at the same time swaying 
lithely from side to side. With his lightness, 
there was apparent in his tone and the pucker 
of his black eyebrows a certain self-satisfying 
sadness. 

“What reason have you got for being 
gloomyasked Gregory, skeptically. 

“I’ve just told you a half a dozen good 
ones.” 

“But you spoke of another.” 

“Well, if I must bare my soul, I’ve had my 
worthlessness thrown in my face, and just when 
I was filled with good resolutions and youthful 
ambitions, too. If only Fd been born a few 
years sooner I might have got shot in the war 
and proved I wasn’t so bad, after all. Why, I 
might even have become the unknown soldier. 
Greg, if you want to know how I feel, fall 
desperately in love with a girl some time who 
thinks you’re a damn fool. I told her I loved 
her madly, and she asked me if I knew any more 
funny stories.” 

“Did she really ask you that?” 


COMMENCEMENT 


"‘Words to that effect. Oh, I know she was 
right! That’s the worst part of it. No girl 
who must live on food and wear clothes could 
trust herself to my support. It was last night 
at the dance^—during the eighth. I sat that out 
with her and then left.” 

“I wondered where you went to. I was look¬ 
ing all over for you. I had something I wanted 
to tell you. I—I sat out the tenth. I’m en¬ 
gaged.” 

Their hands met in a firm clasp. 

“Congratulations, Greg. A job, honors, and 
now this. You seem to be all set for a glorious 
career.” Jimmy paused and knitted his brows. 
“Why—why, I wonder—I— Well, I’ll be 
damned! Who the devil is it?” 

“Leonora, of course.” 

Jimmy whistled a bar of minor notes and 
reached into his pocket. “Here, have a cigar¬ 
ette. And the good shall conquer the earth— 
oris it the meek? Well, well! Congratula¬ 
tions again—three or four times. I— She’s a 
conquest to be proud of, Greg. She wouldn’t 
take just anybody. I know. She has a great 
many ideals. Gosh!” 

“What’s the matter?” 

“Oh, haven’t you guessed?” 

“Guessed what?” 

“Why, I told you I’d proposed to some one 
last night. I thought probably- 

“Not Leonora!” 



COMMENCEMENT 9 

‘Why not?” 

“I didn’t have any idea that you-” 

“That I wanted to marry her? I didn’t, 
myself, till last night. It came over me all of 
a sudden. You know the result. Cheer up, 
Greg. I’m not angry. You’ll make her hap¬ 
pier than I ever could. I guess I’m not the 
marrying kind. I’m not the dependable, steady 
husband.” He gazed wistfully at his shoes. 

“What makes you think I am?” asked 
Gregory, with some asperity. 

“Oh, you got honors and a job and-” 

“Oh, shut up!” 

Gregory! Oh, well.” He rose and crossed 
the room to the piano. 

Love's fleeting fantasy. 

Commingled ecstasy. 

Lips' sweetness, not your lips -^ 

These I desire—sips 
From the brew and not 
The raisin in the potT 

When Jimmy had first composed this song 
Gregory had admired it. Now, the soft, wan 
thread of melody rasped his nerves; the words 
were a taunt. Still, he said nothing. 

“Is Leonora still here?” asked Jimmy. 

“No. She went this morning on the same 
train with my family.” 

“Ah, they will be able to congratulate her 
all the way to New York.” 




lO 


COMMENCEMENT 


‘‘They don’t know about it.” 

Jimmy clasped his hands behind his head and 
stared at the ceiling. “Have you ever met her 
mother and father, Greg^” 

“No.” 

“Neither have I. Did you know her brother 
well when he was here?” 

“No.” 

“Oh, it’s better that you won her. Imagine 
me asking her father for his daughter’s hand. 
‘Have you any income, young man?’ ‘No, sir, 
not a cent.’ ‘What are you going to do to earn 
a living?’ ‘I don’t know, sir.’ ‘Young man, 
get the hell out of here.’ ” Jimmy performed a 
strenuous pantomime of his being shoved 
through a door and kicked down stairs. “Greg, 
the next time I ask anyone to marry me, she’s 
going to have money and lots of it—real hon- 
est-to-God money—a wad that would choke a 
horse.” 

Gregory withd^-^w his feet from the chair 
and stood up. 

“Where are you going, Greg?” 

“I ought to do a little packing,” he said, 
vaguely. He quickly left the room and climbed 
the stairs to the top floor. There he entered his 
own room and closed the door behind him. He 
stretched out on his bed and lay staring up at 
tlie ceiling. Somewhat later, footsteps and 
voices sounded through the hall. It was lunch 
time, but he did not move. There was no rea- 


COMMENCEMENT 11 

son for not going down—^no real reason, except 
that he did not want to talk. He smoked two 
cigarettes and threw each of them away before 
it was half finished. He sat up and scratched 
his head. Perhaps Jimmy was telling them all 
about the engagement now. They would be 
laughing, waiting for him to come down so 
that they could boisterously congratulate him. 
Some one was playing the piano. He heard a 
bleating, sonorous voice. It was one of the 
alumni back to renew youthful associations. 

Strike up that tune, boys. 

Lift your glasses high. 

Though parting-days are drawing nigh. 

To-night each one enjoys 

The strong, firm clasp of brother*s hand. 

And friendship in our loyal band. 

So let us give a rousing cheer. 

First for our alma mater dear. 

Then for our fraternity.** 

Gregory shuddered. The words jarred upon 
him. The voice sawed across his nerves. It 
seemed such a long, eventful time since he had 
first heard that stanchly sentimental melody. 
Then he had just emerged from the awful im¬ 
pressiveness of a long ritual. The song, he 
remembered, had thrilled him, had forced the 
blood tingling up his spine and the back of his 
head. 

The tune changed. He half opened the door 


12 COMMENCEMENT 

and listened. Jimmy was playing. There was 
no one else in the house who could play like 
that—and sing. 

*When I walk through the pahk at nighty 
My honey bahy^ then Fm, oh^ so blue, 

^Cause why? ^Cause Ym pantin' fo' you. 

Except fo' Mistah Moonman, hon, they ain't no 
light, 

I can't see no one^ but — 

Oh, you daddy's chocolate lollypop !— 

I heahs some kissin' 

An' if I lissen 
I heahs a sigh, 

A lovin' cry. 

That, hon, is why - 

Gregory danced back and forth across his 
room, singing the chorus and swaying from 
side to side. 

*7 got them moooanin', wweeeeepin' blllooooes, 

Vm feelin' grumpy. 

An' somethin' lumpy's 
Climbin' my throat, 

1 feel like Vd taken Mistah Humpty Dumpty's 
Fall, an' through my mind theah drifts a minak 
note, 

A moanin' tune. 

From a loony, loony night in June, 

A weepin', creepin', heatin', neat an' sweet an' fleetin* 
Jazz‘time melody," 

Gregory was smiling. After all, Jimmy was 
lots of fun. Gregory wished he were like 
Jimmy; that he took things less seriously. He 


COMMENCEMENT 


13 

always wished that, whenever he was depressed. 
He walked to the mirror above his dresser, 
straightened his necktie, and brushed his hair. 
He would go down and get Jimmy. They 
would go out somewhere together that after¬ 
noon. To-morrow was still a long way off. 

As Gregory settled himself in the New York 
bound train the next afternoon, his mind was 
heavy with loneliness and uncertainty. He 
fully sensed his abrupt detachment from the 
solid facts and the accustomed grooves of col¬ 
lege life. He seemed to hang precariously be¬ 
tween two eccentrically whirling worlds. 

He took a copy of Hardy’s The Dynasts 
from his bag. He followed the fore scene with 
concentrated interest, until a passage, uttered 
by the Spirit of the Pities, arrested his atten¬ 
tion. 

Amid this scene of bodies substantive 
Strange waves I sight like winds grown visible, 
Which bear men’s forms on their innumerous coils, 
Twining and serpentining round and through. 

Also retracing threads like gossamers— 

Except in being irresistible— 

Which complicate with some, and balance all. 

Gregory looked out of the window. A 
‘‘body substantive” crawling ant-like about this 
business of existing, driven here and there by 
irresistible forces. It was immersion in these 


14 COMMENCEMENT 

‘"strange waves” that was more dreadful than 
any other catastrophe which life might offer. 
It was this same dread which had spurred him 
on in his quest for academic honors; and it was 
this, too, which had prompted him to defend 
opinions which had given him a college-wide 
reputation as a radical. Destiny, he chose to 
believe, was in himself, and not in some blind, 
mystic force. 

The flowing panorama outside the car win¬ 
dow subtly drew Gregory’s speculations away 
from the demands which the future might make 
upon his “body substantive.” The marbled 
green of the fields and woods that sped by re¬ 
called the college campus, and that, in turn, 
faded into a background for the firm, slim 
figure of Leonora. It was to her secure, prac¬ 
tical idealism that he must trust himself in re¬ 
sisting the dead weight of his clay. Her cool, 
finely cut lips, her low, sure voice as she 
planned the security of their future—surely 
these would withhold him from the stupor of 
ordinary existence. 

“Tickets, please.” 

Off through the trees a tiny red house stood 
forth vividly against the green. He turned 
from the window, keeping the impression of the 
house and its setting before him. He and 
Leonora might go off to some such place and 
live their lives as they chose. Living expenses, 
plumbing, children—these details were for the 


COMMENCEMENT 15 

moment swept from his consideration. He saw 
Leonora, dressed in white, leaning out of the 
gable window and waving her hand at him as 
he came across the fresh, springy fields. 

A gaunt, gray scaffolding bearing the name 
of an infallible panacea flashed by the window. 
Of course things must be sold. Why had 
Jimmy made that fatuous remark about liter¬ 
ary ambitions? Before anything else, one must 
earn a living. It ought not to be difficult. 
Probably the only reason he dreaded the test of 
his ability was that he was facing something un¬ 
known. But he would not go under; nor would 
he become a machine. It was his duty to sup¬ 
port himself—and Leonora—but merely a 
duty—something to be done to prevent future 
trouble—like brushing one’s teeth. “Bodies 
substantive,” 



CHAPTER TWO 


“Well, Gregory, I’m proud of you.” Mr. 
Thrumm spread his napkin in his lap and 
rubbed his hands together zestfully. He was 
a lean, long-jawed man who gave the impres¬ 
sion of being ever mentally alert. “Your 
mother and I have been talking things over, and 
weVe decided you’re the right sort of a son to 
have.” 

Gregory looked at his mother. She was smil¬ 
ing with repressed amusement. She dropped 
her eyes and adjusted her pince-nez. He 
turned to his sister, sitting opposite. There was 
contempt, a little jealousy, perhaps, in her blue 
eyes. If she had spoken, he thought, she would 
have said something about his being a lucky 
dog. There was a surprise in store for him. 
He remembered birthdays, when the imminence 
of presents had produced the same pleasant con¬ 
straint. He reached to pick up his soup spoon. 
There, half covered by his plate, reposed an 
envelope. He picked it up and read his name, 
written in his father’s scrawling back-hand. 
Within the envelope he found a check to his 
order for one thousand dollars. 

“Not a bad little world, is it, Greg^?” 

He smiled across the table at his sister. 

l6 





COMMENCEMENT 


17 

“Why”—^he turned to his father—“it’s an 
awful lot. Thank you very, very much, 
father.” 

“It is a lot, my boy—now, but I hope in a 
few years you’ll be able to think slightingly of 
such an amount. It’s a nest egg.” 

“You sit on it, Greg, and watch it hatch lit¬ 
tle percentages.” 

“Gregory”—Mrs. Thrumm smiled so 
broadly that the wrinkles in her ponderous chin 
were doubled—“your father and I want you to 
have a good start in life.” The folds in her face 
rolled into one mass of flesh. “We want you 
to have something to build on—a solid founda¬ 
tion. We’re very proud of you,” she added, 
with decision. 

“When do you start work, son?” 

“Monday morning.” 

“So soon as that?” Rupert Thrumm raised 
his eyebrows. “Well, I guess it won’t hurt you 
any. I’d sort of expected you’d want to take a 
little vacation first, but it doesn’t do a man any 
harm to keep in the harness. Hard work is the 
best medicine for anybody.” 

“You’d better spend your time between now 
and Monday morning learning Kipling’s If 
by heart, Greg,” observed Catherine. She was 
a slim, blond-haired girl who, except when she 
spoke, seemed almost doll-like. Her voice was 
husky and rough. 


i8 COMMENCEMENT 

“Why so cynical, Kate^ Been disappointed 
in love or something*?” 

“No, Fm still single.” 

“You ought to get married. A little dish¬ 
washing is what you need.” 

“I really can’t imagine what’s got into 
Catherine,” observed Mrs. Thrumm to no one 
in particular. 

“You see, Greg, Fm interesting, anyway. 
Nobody can figure me out.” 

“Why’d you get your hair bobbed? To save 
time doing it?” 

Catherine laughed. “Has some girl been 
telling you she got her hair bobbed to save 
time? Do you suppose these curls twist up 
themselves?” 

Gregory silently observed the fluff of kinky 
blond curls. 

“I wish you’d let it grow out again. Kitten,” 
observed Mr. Thrumm, smiling almost wist¬ 
fully at her. “You had such long golden hair.” 
He reached across to pat her head. 

“Yellow, dad,” she replied, drawing away 
impatiently. “How much money are you going 
to make, Greg?” 

“Twenty-five a week.” 

“You’ll save twenty, I suppose.” 

“You must save something,” interposed Mr. 
Thrumm. ‘It’s a good habit to get into. Until 
you’re well started, Fll supply the bed and 
board, so you ought to be able to save a sub- 


COMMENCEMENT 


19 

stantial amount. Don’t let a week go by with¬ 
out putting something aside.” 

"‘I fully intend to.” Gregory recalled that 
this was exactly as he and Leonora had planned. 
He noticed, as he spoke, that Catherine was 
looking at him contemptuously. It was dif¬ 
ficult to understand Catherine. She compared 
very unfavorably with Leonora. 

“I have something I want you and Catherine 
to do to-night,” said Mrs. Thrumm. 

Gregory looked apprehensively at his 
mother. 

“I can’t,” said Catherine, firmly. “I’ve al¬ 
ready got something to do.” 

“But can’t you put it off ^ This is Gregory’s 
first night home. I shouldn’t think you’d go 
and make other plans. You’ve always got 
something else to do whenever I want you to 
do something for me.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Well, you’ll do it, anyway, won’t you 
Gregory? I want you to call on Aunt Annie.” 

“I’m awfully sorry, mother. I—I made an 
engagement for this evening.” 

“But you ought to go to see her. She thinks 
a lot of you, Gregory, and she gave you that 
beautiful emerald scarf pin for a graduation 
present.” 

“I’ll go, but I really can’t do it to-night, 
mother.” 

“Better go, Greg. It ’ll be easy sailing for 


20 COMMENCEMENT 

you. As near as I can figure, she hasn’t anyone 
else to leave her money to. She’s off me since I 
told her I wasn’t thrilled by the sloppy books 
she forced me to read.” 

“It’s not the money, Gregory. She’s done a 
lot for you, and it’s only common decency to 
be nice to her,” said Mrs. Thrumm. 

“I’ll give you a lesson in what to say and 
what not to say before you go. I’ve learned by 
experience,” said Catherine. 

“Why do you talk as though you were so 
worldly. Kittenasked Mr. Thrumm in his 
best paternal manner. “I know you’re not, but 
I don’t like to hear you say such things.” 

“You will go soon, won’t you, Gregory?” 

“Yes. I’d go to-night, only I made this en¬ 
gagement several days ago.” Gregory turned 
silently and uncomfortably to his meal, for he 
had noticed a gleam of suspicion in his mother’s 
eyes. He preferred that, for the present at 
least, his relationship to Leonora should re¬ 
main a secret. He knew instinctively that his 
family would not perceive the romantic aspects 
of his engagement. 

“Engaged or something, Greg?” 

His eyes narrowed as he watched Catherine 
speak the words. He half realized that the 
flash of temper in his glance must be apparent 
to anyone looking at him. He jabbed with his 
fork at the food on his plate. What should he 
say? A denial was on his lips. Perhaps his 


COMMENCEMENT 


21 


mother would ignore the question and his ob¬ 
vious resentment. 

‘‘Gregory, you’re not engaged, are you?” 
Mrs. Thrumm leaned anxiously toward him. 

“Yes.” His eyes were upon his plate. His 
anger ebbed, and he felt a pleasurable sense of 
relief. The flood of protestation would come, 
but there would be no compromise. 

“Is it that girl who came back with us on the 
train yesterday?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, I was afraid there might be something 
like that. She seemed a nice enough girl, 

but-Why, Gregory, you’re so young to tie 

yourself down. What are her people like?” 

“I haven’t met them.” 

“What!” 

“Gregory, I think you’re foolish.” Mr. 
Thrumm spoke decidedly. “I’ve determined 
not to interfere with you. You’ve always been 
pretty level-headed, and—well, it’s your head 
and nobody else’s that’s got to carry you 
through. But I do think you’re foolish. My 
advice—and I feel this very strongly—is that 
you wait—stay engaged if you must—till you 
can support a wife without spoiling your own 
life. I’m thinking of you, Gregory. Romance 
and all that is to be expected, but don’t let it 
ruin you.” 

“Gregory,” said his mother, with a sigh, “this 
is a great disappointment to me.” 



22 COMMENCEMENT 

“Oh, why worry about it?” interrupted 
Catherine. “He’ll probably be engaged a 
dozen times before the final leap. College boys 
always get engaged. It’s part of sowing one s 
wild oats. I’ve been engaged several times, 
myself.” 

“Anyone engaged to you would get engaged 
again,” said Gregory, pointedly. 

“Of course. That proves they like it.” 

Gregory started to reply, but instead turned 
his attention to his dinner. 

“You will wait awhile, won’t you, 
Gregory?” 

“I expect so.” 

“Take father’s and mother’s advice, Greg. 
They’ve been married a long time, and they 
know what it means.” 

“Catherine”— her father smiled indulgently 
at her—“you ought to think of getting mar- 
ried.” 

^‘All she thinks of,” said Mrs. Thrumm, bit¬ 
terly, ‘‘is how much money she can squeeze out 
of us. She’ll marry for money.” 

“Oh, Catherine ’ll be all right. She’s young 
yet.” Her father patted her head. 

Mrs. Thrumm sighed. “Oh, I hope things 
will work out for the best.” 

“Or, in other words, all wrong from your 
point of view, Greg.” 


COMMENCEMENT 


23 

Gregory hurried across the city toward 
Leonora’s home. He felt a great need of sym¬ 
pathy, of reassurance. Remembering the check, 
he paused and reached in his pocket. Yes, it 
was safe. That amount of money would pay 
only one month’s rent of his father’s apart¬ 
ment on Riverside Drive. Oh, well! . . . 

A large blue automobile slipped noiselessly 
by. It seemed an endless struggle to attempt 
to earn things like that. Four or five years of 
his present salary. But he must stop thinking 
of money. There were other things. Of 
course, money was necessary, but only as a 
means. A small place in the country—cozy, 
well furnished, clean, tidy, tucked in a corner 
of green trees. Money enough to live there 
comfortably, to buy books, to make life sub* 
stantially pleasant. An automobile, perhaps^— 
later. There was no reason for misgivings. 

Leonora would restore his confidence through 
her own. He must justify her faith in himself. 
She would be the spur to his success—no, not 
the spur—the goal, rather. It was because of 
her that he was nervous and apprehensive. It 
might be rather fun to fight and struggle, while 
Leonora watched and encouraged him. 

He passed down a street between two cheer¬ 
less walls of apartment houses. Halfway, he 
paused and gazed up a precipice of dun stone. 
Behind one of the rows of windows lived 
Leonora. The strident tones of a phonograph 


24 COMMENCEMENT 

struggled against the restless petulance of a 
baby. Here, he reflected, the check would pay 
far more than a year’s rent. He sighed and 
entered the building. 

“Leonora!” 

“You do love me, don’t you, Gregory^” she 
pleaded, as they ended their kiss. “Oh, I for¬ 
got to take off my apron. I was so excited 
when I heard the door bell ring.” As she led 
Gregory through the long, dark hallway in the 
direction of an oblong of light, she untied the 
apron. They entered a small living room. 
Gregory noticed with relief that it was unoccu¬ 
pied. 

“Lll be right back, Gregory. I want to hang 
my apron in the kitchen, and I’ll bring mother. 
We were just finishing the dishes. Sit down, 
won’t you*?” 

Gregory did not sit down. He crossed to the 
window, glanced far down into the noisy, dusty 
street, and then turned to survey the room. To¬ 
gether with his father, he had laughed at his 
mother when she insisted upon hiring an in¬ 
terior decorator to furnish their apartment. 
Now he wondered whether, after all, she had 
not been wise. But of course it wasn’t the 
Frails’ fault; these things were obviously the 
best they could afford. Poor Leonora! No 
wonder she was so insistent upon comforts. He 
wound his way through an agglomeration of 
gilt chairs and what-nots to a large and substan- 


COMMENCEMENT 


25 


tial-looking seat. As he settled himself in it he 
heard an ominous snapping somewhere in the 
bowels of the chair. He crossed to the Morris 
chair and tested it with his fist. It seemed safe. 
Leonora’s father must be a worthless old soul. 
She had said he was queer and not at all prac¬ 
tical—lazy and good-for-nothing was probably 
nearer the truth. He stared at the gilt chande¬ 
lier. What would his mother .... 

“Mother, I want to introduce you to 
Gregory Thrumm.” 

“How do you do, Mrs. Frail.” Gregory low¬ 
ered his eyes and retained in his memory an im¬ 
pression of an angular, square-jawed woman 
with thin, nervous lips. She was younger than 
he had expected her to be. 

“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Thrumm?” 

Without any apparent reason, Gregory found 
himself imagining how shrill and ear-splitting 
that voice would sound if raised in anger. 

“Leonora’s been telling me how successful 
you were in college.” 

He smiled mechanically. 

“I’ve told mother, Gregory.” 

“Oh, have you*?” Her knowledge of the en¬ 
gagement seemed somehow to distort its 
romance. What ought he to say at this point? 
There seemed to be nothing, so he continued to 
gaze at the green curves in the yellow carpet. ' 

“Of course I don’t know anything about you, 
Mr. Thrumm,” she continued, at the same time 


26 COMMENCEMENT 

picking pieces of lint from her serge dress, ‘‘but 
I guess I can trust Leonora. She’s told me you 
were going to wait till you got to making a 
good lot of money, and it seems to me that s 
one of the most important things. I wouldn’t 
ever advise anyone to marry just for money, but 
you can’t be happy without it. 

‘‘No.” Gregory looked at Leonora. Her 
profile was one of the most perfect he had ever 
seen. It was not merely pretty. There was 
character in her firm jaw. Her dark brown 
hair swept down the side of her face in one 
smooth wave, contrasting sharply with the ex¬ 
treme whiteness of her face. It was impossible 
that such a delicate, shapely face should ever 
be cut by the deep, coarse lines that were in 
her mother’s. 

“This is awfully hot weather to be cooped 
up in a little flat.” Mrs. Frail sighed and 
dropped her hands to her hips. “I wish those 
people would stop playing that phonograph. 
Night after night they keep it going. Some¬ 
times I think it ’ll drive me crazy.” 

“I thought father was coming in,” said 
Leonora. 

“If you want him, you’d better go and get 
him. He’s probably forgotten everything ex¬ 
cept himself.” 

Gregory’s sympathies bounded to the man 
whom, a few minutes ago, he had decided to be 
lazy and good-for-nothing. 


COMMENCEMENT 


27 


“I’ll go and get him.” Leonora smiled 
nervously. “You’d better meet the whole 
family while you’re about it.” 

He wondered uncomfortably whether he 
were to spend the evening with Leonora’s par¬ 
ents. He had not, until now, realized how thor¬ 
oughly engaged he was. There was something 
final and definite in being displayed as a future 
son-in-law. 

“Did you know my son John*? He gradu¬ 
ated from your college.” 

“I’ve met him. I didn’t know him well. 
You see, he wasn’t in my class.” 

“He’s doing very well, so he writes. He’s 
with a large packing house in Chicago. John is 
very ambitious. He worked his own way 
through college. We weren’t able to give him 
any help.” 

Gregory was about to remark that those who 
worked for their education usually appreciated 
it most, when he heard Leonora’s voice in the 
hallway. 

“Don’t ask so many questions, father. If 
you don’t want to come, say so.” Her voice 
held a tone of tolerant impatience which 
Gregory had never before heard in it. A mo¬ 
ment later Leonora appeared. “I guess 
father ’ll be here in a minute. You mustn’t 
mind if he asks you a lot of questions. He al¬ 
ways does that.” 

Gregory’s nervousness was increased by his 


COMMENCEMENT 


28 

recollection of Jimmy's imaginary dialogue 
with Mr. Frail. As a tall, gaunt figure ap¬ 
peared in the doorway, Gregory cleared his 
throat. Leonora, he thought, resembled her 
father rather than her mother. 

“Gregory, I want to introduce you to my 
father." 

“She doesn’t really want to. She thinks 
she’ll have to sometime and that she might as 
well do it now.’’ 

Gregory smiled broadly. 

“No, keep your seat. I can manage this one 
beautifully. When it grumbles it doesn’t 
frighten me as it does most people who make 
the attempt. This is a very poor room for 
Leonora’s purpose. There isn’t any sort of sofa 
or couch in it." 

Gregory noticed that Mrs. Frail’s lips tight¬ 
ened at this remark. 

“But I am supposed to be the stern, practical 
father to-night. Leonora tells me you are en¬ 
gaged to marry her." 

“Yes." 

“Why are you engaged^" 

The smile on Gregory’s face was abruptly 
smoothed out. “I-’’ 

“You mustn’t mind my husband, Mr. 
Thrumm. He’s always asking silly questions, 
as Leonora told you." 

“But," replied Mr. Frail, amicably, “it 
doesn’t appear to me to be such a silly question. 



COMMENCEMENT 


29 

After all, one must have reasons for taking such 
a decisive step—a longing for companionship 
or children. Is it the latter?’’ 

“Father!” 

“If you keep on like this, Jonathan, Mr. 
Thrumm will probably decide not to marry 
Leonora, anyway.” A sharpness was becoming 
noticeable in her voice. 

“Well, we’ll say, then, that he’s in love with 
her. That’s harmless and means very little. 
Are you making a great deal of money?” 

“I—^not yet. I’ve just graduated from col¬ 
lege. I start work Monday morning.” 

“But are you going to make a lot?” 

“I don’t know. I hope to make enough to be 
comfortable.” 

“Of course he is,” asseverated Leonora, with 
some asperity. 

“No.” Mr. Prail shook his head slowly. 
“He doesn’t know. He merely hopes he is. If 
he were going to make a lot, he’d be sure of it. 
He thinks of the possibility of being unsuccess¬ 
ful. That’s what I did.” 

“But doesn’t everyone think of the possi¬ 
bility?” asked Gregory, uncertainly. 

“No. At least not at such a time as this. 
Why, you should have told me that you fully 
expected to be making thousands and thousands 
in a few months; that with a girl like Leonora 
to work for there could be no limit to your pos¬ 
sibilities. But to be uncertain now, before 


30 COMMENCEMENT 

you’ve even started, and when you’re asking me 

to trust my daughter to your support-Still, 

it will probably be more ample than mine.” 

“Don’t you be discouraged, Mr. Thrumm. 
He always talks this way, and it doesn’t mean 
anything. I’ve heard this before. 

Gregory glanced at Leonora as the last 
sentence was spoken, and he saw a warning 
frown pass quickly over her face. He felt as 
if he were the victim of a conspiracy. Others, 
then, had been discouraged by Mr. Frail. 
Mother and daughter were attempting to re¬ 
strain Mr. Frail so that this new suitor might 
not be frightened away. He liked Leonora’s 
father, though. There were glimmers of 
humorous understanding in the man’s eyes. 
He would like to talk with him alone. Could 
Leonora really be as sordid as she seemed now ? 
Did she possess something of her mother’s 
coarseness*? 

“Do you know my son?” 

“I’ve met him, but I don’t know him well.” 

“He’s making money. He always said he 
was going to make money. I always thought 
he would make money. We walked down the 
street one day together just after he graduated 
from college. He pointed to a large automo¬ 
bile and said. Til own one of those in a few 
years.’ He’s got one now. He’s too busy to 
get married. You are not like my son.” 

“I’m afraid I’m not.” 



COMMENCEMENT 


31 


“Gregory, you know just as well as I do that 
you’ll be successful. Anyone who finished 
highest in his class at college isn’t going to be a 
failure—unless he gets a lot of queer ideas into 
his head. I wish you wouldn’t talk so, father.” 

“My son,” continued Mr. Prail, reminis¬ 
cently, “finished very high in his class. He did 
what he was told to do—^nothing more. One 
of the greatest disappointments in my life oc¬ 
curred when he was twelve years old. I took 
him into my room where I keep all my books. 
‘John,’ I said, ‘you may read any of these books 
except those on that top shelf. Never touch 
those. They are not fit for a young boy to 
read; they are bad, evil books.’ He promised 
me he wouldn’t.” Mr. Prail sighed. “And he 
never did. That was my final attempt to inter¬ 
est him in literature.” 

Gregory giggled. 

“I admire him for it,” snapped Mrs. Prail, 
biting her lower lip. 

Jonathan Prail rose slowly and held out his 
hand to Gregory. “If you were already mar¬ 
ried to Leonora, I would stay and talk with 
you, but, as you’re only engaged, I shall leave 
you with her. Nellie, can you manage to sit in 
the dining-room evenings till Mr. Thrumm has 
succeeded in business?” 

“Jonathan!” 

“I shall be glad to have you marry my 
daughter. I make no terms. I am in no situa- 


32 COMMENCEMENT 

tion to do so. But my advice is that you wait 
until you are earning at least twenty thousand a 
year.” 

Gregory’s eyes widened. “Twenty . 

“Poor boy! You ought to many some 
wealthy girl—some one who might think that 
washing dishes would be a sort of lark. My 
son has been out of college only three years. 
He’s making fifteen thousand. I was beaten be¬ 
fore I ever started, and I’m afraid you are, too. 
Good night.” Mr. Frail’s long, angular frame 
filled the doorway for a moment and then dis¬ 
appeared. 

“You mustn’t let my husband worry you, 
Mr. Thrumm. I’m afraid that anybody who 
doesn’t know him would be likely to think he 
was serious in all his talk, but he isn t, really. 
She attempted an ingratiating smile which, in 
Gregory’s opinion, was not a success. “I’ll say 
good night to you now. I’ve got some things I 
want to look after. Good night.” She smiled 
again and left the room. 

Gregory settled back into the safe chair. He 
had intended, when an opportunity should 
offer, to take Leonora in his arms and revive 
his flagging spirits with kisses. But now 
Leonora had become, instead of a delectable 
girl whom he must woo with romance and vows 
of undying affection, a commodity to be bought 
with hard cash. Moreover, there remained the 
suspicion that Leonora and her mother were 


COMMENCEMENT aS 

not passively awaiting the results of his own 
initiative. He felt himself at bay. 

“I knew father was worrying you, Gregory, 
but you mustn’t mind what he says. You 
mustn’t let yourself get discouraged.” 

“Like the others^” 

“What others^ What do you mean?” 

“I gather from what your mother said that 
he had discouraged others.” 

“Don’t be silly.” 

“That’s not an answer.” 

“Well, what if he has?” 

“Oh, I just happened to be interested.” 

“Do you suppose you’re the first man I ever 
knew?” 

“Oh no! You’ve probably been in love lots 
of times before.” 

“I don’t admit it, but what if I have?” 

“Oh, nothing! You probably get over it 
quickly.” 

“If you’re going to sit here and pick quar¬ 
rels with me you might as well go.” Leonora’s 
eyes were narrow, and her knuckles were white 
and sharp. 

“I haven’t any desire to pick quarrels.” 
Gregory rose. “I’ll go, though, if you’d like.” 

“If that’s all I mean to you you might just 
as well.” She, too, rose and nervously smoothed 
her skirt. “I suppose you’re glad of an excuse, 
now that father has frightened you.” 

Gregory tried to appear calm and to speak 


34 COMMENCEMENT 

naturally, but his voice became thin and grat¬ 
ing. “All I asked you was to explain what 
your mother said. I don’t see that it’s any¬ 
thing strange for me to be jealous. You might 
even consider it a compliment.” 

“I suppose it’s a compliment to say I get over 
being in love quickly.” 

‘I’m not going to stand here and argue with 
you. Good night.” 

Gregory stalked down the hallway. At the 
door he paused uncertainly. He heard a foot¬ 
step behind him. He hesitated and then turned 
swiftly about. 

“Leonora! I love you. I adore you.” 

Back in the living room he sat with her held 
tightly in his arms. There had been tears on 
her cheeks and he had kissed them tenderly 
away. He pressed her fingers, one after an¬ 
other, to his lips and stared vacantly at the 
green patterns in the carpet. 

“Oh, Leonora, I forgot to tell you.” He 
reached to his pocket and drew forth the en¬ 
velope his father had given him. “Here, this 
will cheer you up.” As he spoke, his words dis¬ 
played their full meaning to him. He started 
to explain, but he saw that Leonora was inter¬ 
ested only in what she held in her fingers. 

“Gregory! A thousand dollars!” Her eyes 
widened. “Did your father give it to you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, it will be so nice having something in 


COMMENCEMENT 35 

the bank to fall back on. It would take years 
to save that much.” 

“I have almost as much again in the bank 
now.” 

“Why, I’m marrying a rich man!” 

Gregory smiled shortly. 

Leonora threw her arms about his neck and 
pressed her lips upon his. “You mustn’t think 
I’m mercenary,” she sobbed. 


Gregory gave a mighty shove and felt with 
satisfaction the door brushing his shoulder 
blades. A young woman wearing a crepe-de- 
Chine shirtwaist exclaimed, “Oh!” disgustedly 
and dug her red elbow into Gregory’s ribs. 
The car was in motion now. He wondered 
what would happen if the door should suddenly 
burst open. He glanced at the panorama of 
concrete wall and shuddered. The train roared 
and clattered through the dark hole. A man 
beside him coughed, and Gregory could feel 
damp points upon his cheek and neck. He be¬ 
came aware that the person in front of him was 
shifting uneasily. It was a woman, a fat, for¬ 
eign-looking woman wearing a red and blue 
checkered shirtwaist. A blue handkerchief was 
bound tightly over her shiny black hair. She 
suffered the crowd dully and uncomprehend- 
ingly. She held a large bundle clasped against 
her full breast, as if suspicious that some one 


36 COMMENCEMENT 

might attempt to take it away from her. The 
man in front of her unfolded his newspaper, 
and she pressed back against Gregory. She 
seemed clean, but he nevertheless drew back 
tightly against the door in a futile effort not to 
touch her. The girl in the crepe-de-Chine shirt¬ 
waist dug again with her elbow and en¬ 
deavored, by means of her shoulders and her 
upper lip, to express supercilious disdain. 

Money was necessary to keep one away from 
this welter. The big blue automobile would 
take one to business smoothly, through the open 
air. Money would keep one from perspiring 
and from smelling the perspiration of others. 
Or the red house, away from old dust and stale 
odors. One’s ambition seemed to seep out with 
the perspiration. It was this facet of life which 
frightened Leonora. There seemed only one 
wall which could shut this out, a wall to be 
built with hard, unceasing toil. Down here all 
thoughts seemed sordid. Ideals were leering 
idols. A pink crepe-de-Chine shirtwaist 
lewdly veiling pendulous breasts. Why did she 
wear that and then dig her elbows into men who 
inadvertently touched her? 

The lights of a station flashed behind 
Gregory. The brakes hissed stridently, and he 
was pitched violently against the pink shirt¬ 
waist. 

‘‘Saaay!” 

‘‘Excuse me, I-” 



COMMENCEMENT 


37 


The door slid open, and Gregory was shoved 
farther into the crowded car, beyond reach of 
the crepe-de-Chine shirtwaist. He kicked 
against one foot, trod upon another, and at last 
found standing space. The door slammed to, 
and the train was in motion again . . . 

Gregory wedged himself into the elevator 
which was to bear him along the final stretch to 
his job. His glance was attracted by the flash 
of a diamond stick-pin. Above that, upon a 
glistening white collar, was poised a square, 
heavy jowl, clean shaven and slightly pow¬ 
dered. The man was holding his hand above 
the heads of the crowd; it was a white, recently 
manicured hand, and between the first two 
fingers there rested a burning cigar. 

“Good morning, Mr. Blooker.” The firm, 
full voice twanged upon Gregory’s eardrums 
with startling force. 

“Oh, good morning, Klint! Did you 
straighten out that little affair yesterday^” 

“It’s all O. K. now. I’ll be in to tell you 
about it in the course of the morning.” 

Gregory’s assurance was slowly oozing away. 
Mr. Blooker must be his employer. The 
Blooker Advertising Agency was the firm which 
had engaged his services, entirely by mail, and 
through the recommendation of the university, 
of which Mr. Blooker was also an alumnus. 
Klint, the man with the massive jowls, was un¬ 
doubtedly an employee of the firm. It was a 


38 COMMENCEMENT 

depressing thought that one so formidable as 
Klint should be merely a hireling. 

‘‘Twelve!’’ 

Gregory’s ears again quivered against the im¬ 
pact of the ringing voice. The elevator came 
to an abrupt halt. Gregory and the man named 
Klint elbowed their way through to the land¬ 
ing. A few steps ahead strode a short, wiry 
man. The figure was somewhat similar to his 
own, thought Gregory. This was probably 
Mr. Blooker. Gregory followed slowly along 
the hall. Mr. Blooker had opened a door and 
was waiting for Klint to pass through. 
Gregory was just in time to catch the door as it 
swung to. 

“Oh, excuse me! I didn’t see you coming.” 

Gregory forced his eyes to return the search¬ 
ing gaze of Mr. Blooker. 

“Are you Gregory Thrumm*?” 

“Yes. Is-” 

“My name is Blooker. I’m glad to know 
you, Thrumm. Will you come right into my 
office with me now, and we’ll talk things over.” 

Gregory silently followed Mr. Blooker 
through the combined reception hall and tele¬ 
phone exchange, along a narrow hallway parti¬ 
tioned with ground glass, and finally into a 
fair-sized private office. 

“Sit down, Thrumm.” Mr. Blooker dis¬ 
posed of his hat and seated himself before a 
wide, flat, mahogany desk. Gregory sat at one 



COMMENCEMENT 


39 


end of the desk, facing Mr. Blooker. “Well, I 
know very little about you, and you know just 
about as much about me.” Mr. Blooker smiled 
pleasantly. 

Gregory settled himself more comfortably in 
his chair. He had detected a twinkle behind 
his employer's spectacles. It hardly seemed 
possible that this fatherly, affable person held 
it in his power to dismiss such an overwhelm¬ 
ing individual as Klint. Gregory smiled back 
at Mr. Blooker. 

“To begin with, I might as well tell you 
that this is an entirely new departure of mine. 
Before this, I never engaged anyone in my copy 
department unless he was an experienced and 
tried advertising man. I am making an experi¬ 
ment. I am taking you in the hope that your 
mind, being fresh and not cluttered up with 
the thoughts of years of ad. writing, may hap¬ 
pen upon new points of view, new ideas. I’m 
not going to give you any instructions. You’ve 
read advertisements all your life, of course, so 
you know the broader rules of the game. I 
wish you didn’t know even these. If I could 
find a cannibal somewhere who could write 
English and who had never seen an advertise¬ 
ment, I’d hire him. Forget all the advertise¬ 
ments you have ever seen—or try to. Be 
original. It’s up to you entirely, you see.” 

Gregory nodded. “I hope your experiment 
will turn out well.” 


40 


COMMENCEMENT 


“You must resolve that it will. You- 

Oh, good morning, Miss Rossby! Lots of mail 
this morning, I see. Oh, Miss Rossby, this is 
Mr. Thrumm, who joins our ranks to-day. 
And will you please ask Klint to step in here.” 

Gregory rather unwillingly removed his gaze 
from the girFs wavy red hair and bowed to her., 
She nodded in a business-like manner, hardly 
seeming to see him. She, Gregory decided, 
could easily put the man with the large jowls 
in his place. 

“Well, as I was saying, Thrumm, it’s up to 
you. There isn’t, I may as well tell you now, 
any room in this office for dead wood. Oppor¬ 
tunity is here, if you are the right sort of man 
—right here—and it’s up to you to grab it. 
There’s no limit to the length you can go if 
you’ve got the right sort of stuff in you. Your 
salary, as you know, is twenty-five dollars a 
week, but I’ll raise it to-day if you show me 
any reason why I should.” 

With some dismay Gregory had seen the 
fatherly glimmer in Mr. Blooker’s eye slowly 
die. In its place had appeared a keen, relent¬ 
less point of light. “The right sort.” It was 
obvious that this man Klint was of that cate¬ 
gory. But he was not like Klint; it would be 
impossible for him to transform himself into a 
Klint. In what did the difference consist^ 
The voice*? That had something to do with it. 
Still, Mr. Blooker’s voice was not blatant. Mr. 



COMMENCEMENT 


41 


Blooker was kindly, the sort of man who could 
win quick and enthusiastic popularity. He 
could hear people saying of Mr. Blooker, ‘He’s 
a regular person.” It would be pleasantly easy 
to bask in Mr. Blooker’s smile, to feel the in¬ 
spiration of agreeing with him and damning 
strange ideas. His philosophy was founded on 
secure, accepted, and rigid lines of thought. 
Yet it was this philosophy which Gregory had 
vowed he would never submit to. It was 
strange that now, at the first real contact with 
it, he should find it a temptation to succumb. 
There was despair in his thoughts—the vague 
and awful fear that his ideals might prove to be 
merely youthful twaddle. 

“Ah, Klint, meet Thrumm, a new addition 
to our copy department. He’s the experiment 
I told you about.” Mr. Blooker rubbed his 
hands together. “Sit down, both of you. 
Klint, I called you in to see what you had on 
the string.” 

“Well, there are several things.” Klint 
crossed his legs. “By the way, I turned down 
that new real-estate account I was telling you 
about. As near as I can size the outfit up, it’s 
nothing but a swindle. I knew you wouldn’t 
want to touch it.” 

“Right you are. I don’t need to tell you, 
Thrumm, that we don’t do any shady adver¬ 
tising here. If we suspect a client of double 


COMMENCEMENT 


42 

dealing, even if he treats us all right, out he 
goes.” 

‘1 went up to the Doctors’ Drug Company 
yesterday,” continued Klint. “Fd got wind 
that they were about to put a new laxative on 
the market. I talked with their sales manager 
—he’s an M.D., you know—and he told me 
all about it. I think we can have the account 
if we show him we can turn out some original 
copy. It seems to be good stuff.” 

“Well, Thrumm,” said Mr. Blooker, turning 
to him with a friendly smile, “I guess that may 
as well be your first job. We can give him a 
day or two to turn out something, can’t we, 
Klint?’ 

“Oh yes! No hurry. I was the first one 
up there, and they aren’t ready to start yet a- 
while.” 

“Good. Turn over everything you’ve got 
about it to Thrumm and explain the situation 
to him. Oh, would you mind showing him to 
his desk*? It’s the one Mr. Wooly had.” Mr. 
Blooker rose and extended his hand. “Here s 
wishing you good luck. If there’s anything 
you want, ask for it. Don’t get stage fright. 
We won’t drop you if the experiment doesn’t 
work the first time.” 

Gregory found that his desk was directly in 
front of Miss Rossby’s in a large room occu¬ 
pied by a dozen or more employees. He rather 
wished he were behind her. For one thing. 


COMMENCEMENT 


43 

he liked the color of her hair; also, he did not 
relish the feeling that this very haughty person 
would be able to observe him throughout the 
day. 

Gregory spent the morning in following 
haphazard thoughts in search of an inspiration, 
but each thought led him either to banality or 
confusion. He tried to force his attention upon 
Prophylax as a commodity to be sold, but the 
drug stood forth too clearly as a sardonic sym¬ 
bol of the life he had been flung into, the life 
he had taught himself to abhor, but which 
must eventually either devour or bruise him. 

When he had finished a meager luncheon he 
set forth upon a rambling walk. The heat of 
the mid-June sun radiated from the pavements. 
His collar hung uncomfortably to his neck. 
He became conscious of the damp, warm inner 
band of his straw hat. He listlessly climbed 
the steps in front of the public library at Forty- 
second Street and found a vacant seat on one 
of the stone benches. He sat with his chin in 
his hands and stared dully at the clutter of 
traffic on the avenue. . . . 

‘'Say, buddy, can you help out a guy'? I 
ain’t had nothin’ to eat-” 

Gregory rose impatiently and descended the 
steps to the sidewalk. He felt an unreasoned 
hatred of the shabby, gray-haired man 
who had accosted him. The hatred increased 
as Gregory trudged along. It spread and in- 



44 COMMENCEMENT 

eluded the city, the people he passed, his own 
confused mind. It was the city which he hated 
most. He would cast aside everything and 
make a dash for the country, where he could 
build his life solidly with his hands, where 
there would be no demand for subjection. 

He turned down the street toward his of¬ 
fice. Of course his present depression would 
pass. This was not the first time he had felt 
this way. He was merely nervous—a little 
frightened, perhaps. Most likely everyone 
knew similar fits of despondency. The days 
would cut a routine; he would become used 
to the city, to his work. The cool evenings, the 
security of Leonora’s white, firm hand would 
reduce the stifling days to their proportion, the 
labor necessary to build happiness. He walked 
more quickly. 

At his desk, he absent-mindedly drew pur¬ 
poseless, angular designs on the white, clean 
blotting pad. An original idea, a fresh point of 
view—it seemed hopeless to sit at a desk and 
concentrate on finding these. And “the right 
stuff” could have very little to do with origi¬ 
nal ideas. It might take weeks or- His 

attention was caught by the lines he was draw¬ 
ing on the blotter. He drew quickly for a few 
moments and then snatched several sheets of 
paper from the drawer. He worked with his 
triangles on one piece of paper, tore that up, 
and began on another. For perhaps an hour 



COMMENCEMENT 


45 

he was oblivious to everything but the lines 
and angles which he was drawing. At last he 
leaned back in his chair, and, as he did so, he 
laughed aloud. He laughed thoughtlessly, not 
realizing that the appraising eyes of Miss 
Rossby were upon him. Abruptly he turned 
about. 

“Oh—I wonder whether I can go in to see 
Mr. Blooker now.” 

Miss Rossby looked at her watch. “He 
doesn’t usually like to be interrupted at this 
time of day, unless it’s something special. 
Perhaps it would be better to wait an hour or 
so, or perhaps in the morning-” 

Gregory’s disappointment was apparent. 
“He told me this morning to come in to see him 
as soon as I’d worked anything out. Maybe 
I’d better wait, though.” The idea had oc¬ 
curred to Gregory that Mr. Blooker might not 
think the advertisement as striking as he him¬ 
self did. He wished that he might test it on 
some one else first. A faint flush appeared on 
his face as the idea of showing it to Miss Rossby 
presented itself to him. He smiled, and, to 
his amazement. Miss Rossby smiled back. 

“As long as he told you that. I’ll go in and 
let him know you’re ready to see him any time 
he’s free.” 

“Maybe you’d better not, as I think of it. 
I guess I’d better consider it first. I may de- 



46 COMMENCEMENT 

cide I don’t like it as well as I thought I did. 
You see, the idea struck me all of a sudden.” 

“It’s for Prophylax, isn’t it?” 

“Yes.” Strange sort of girl Miss Rossby 
was. Probably her highly arched eyebrows 
gave her that haughty expression. Really, she 
seemed quite pleasant and agreeable. 

“Well, just as you say, Mr. Thrumm. If 
you want to show it to me, I might possibly-— 
You see. I’ve been with Mr. Blooker awhile 
and I can usually tell the sort of thing that will 
appeal to him. Of course you do as you like, 
but if I can be of any help-” 

“I’d like to show it to you, only—well, one 
thing I’m afraid of is that the idea may be a 
bit too—well, broad, if you see what I mean.” 

Miss Rossby smiled again. “I see what you 
mean. Well, Mr. Blooker’s probably more 
easily shocked than I am. He turned down an 
underwear advertisement last week that he 
thought was a bit too pornographic.” 

Gregory picked up the sheet of paper from 
his desk, looked at it dubiously a moment, and 
then passed it quickly to her. While she was 
looking at the advertisement, he turned his 
back and dug nervously at the corner of his 
desk with his thumb nail. What kind of girl 
was Miss Rossby, anyway? Where could she 
have got hold of that word “pornographic”? 
She seemed to have a certain sense of humor, 
too, which was not at all in keeping with those 



COMMENCEMENT 


47 

eyebrows. Could that be a giggle which he 
heard? He would wait to see if it were re¬ 
peated. Yes, it was a giggle. He turned 
quickly about. Miss Rossby looked up at him 
and laughed. 

‘1 think it ought to go,” she said. “It’s the 
sort of thing the Doctors’ Drug Company will 
like. We did some advertising for them last 
year—some hair tonic, it was—and this is the 
style they wanted. It’s funny.” 

“What do you think Mr. Blooker will say?” 

“He’ll like it. I’ll go in and tell him you’re 
waiting to see him. I hope I don’t laugh in his 
face. He’d probably think me immodest and 
dismiss me.” 

Miss Rossby walked rather more quickly 
than usual, Gregory thought, as he watched 
her cross the room. He breathed deeply in an 
effort to check his growing nervousness. 

The door of the office opened, and Miss 
Rossby beckoned to Gregory. She held the 
door open for him and smiled as he passed her. 

“Well, Thrumm, this is quick work.” Mr. 
Blooker rubbed his hands together. “Think 
you’ve landed?” 

“I don’t know. You see, this is the first try, 
and I’m not sure just what you want. It seems 
to me to be a fairly good idea. I think it 
might be rather catchy and striking.” 

“Little nervous about it, eh? Well, well, 
that ’ll wear off. Let me see, let me see.” 


COMMENCEMENT 


48 

Gregory placed the sheet of paper on Mr. 
Blooker’s desk. 

THE BLAH-BLAH BIRD 


i 


BLAH-BLAH BIBOl 

PROPHtLAX 

^y.ecoin-me-n Aed A OoeioRS*' 

Noxure utiA the company 

fiejlt docTorS PRODUCT 

Mr. Blooker chuckled. The chuckle evolved 
into a laugh. “ 'Don’t be a blah-blah bird!’ 
Thrumm, that’s good. It’s all right. I like it.” 
He studied the sheet. "Why, if they’re will¬ 
ing to spend some money, we’ll have every man, 
woman, and child in the country educated to 
know all about the blah-blah bird. Why, peo¬ 
ple in the street will stop you and ask you if 
you’re a blah-blah bird. It’s got all sorts of 
possibilities. Start with the bird alone first—■ 





COMMENCEMENT 49 

have everybody wondering what it is—then 
run the line about he never trills, twitters or 
flies, and finally come out with the whole thing. 
It’ll cost money, but it ’ll bring results. Here, 
I wonder if Klint’s in the office.” Mr. 
Blooker jabbed at the button beside his desk. 

^The blah-blah bird! I can see him now, with 
that ugly look, in every subway, elevated, and 
street car. Oh, Miss Rossby, is Klint in?” 

“I think so. I’ll see.” 

“Send him in, if he is, please. How did you 
ever happen to think of it, Thrumm?” 

“It was more or less of an accident. I was 
thinking and drawing triangles on my blotter, 
and I got those two top ones together and made 
eyes in that one. Then I worked out the 
rest.” 

“Well, I hope you’ll have lots more acci¬ 
dents like this one. Of course, it may not 
strike the Drug Company people, but I think 
it will. Here’s Klint. Oh, Klint, look that 
over and see what you think of it.” Mr. 
Blooker handed Klint the sheet of paper and 
tilted back in his chair. As he waited for 
Klint’s verdict, he smiled expectantly. 

Klint did not chuckle; his voice did not 
possess sufficient range. He laughed loudly 
and boisterously, a laugh that made Gregory 
decide that Klint was a very pleasant fellow. 

“Pretty good. Congratulations, Thrumm.” 


50 COMMENCEMENT 

The two shook hands. “I think that'll suit 
the Drug Company. They like that sort of 
thing. Some would think it a bit too—well, 
you know what I mean—not enough dignity, 
but they aren’t that kind. They know the sort 
of things that catch the eye. Dignity’s all 
right for automobiles and hotels and things 
like that.” 

“I think you’re right, Klint. When are you 
going up to see them^” 

Klint looked at his watch. ‘I’m going to 
be up in that neighborhood this afternoon. I 
suppose I may as well stop in then. It makes 
a good impression to get things started 
quickly.” 

“Fine. Well, Thrumm, you’ve done a good 
day’s work. I suppose we’d better keep you 
busy till five, though.” Mr. Blooker picked up 
a sheaf of papers from his desk. “Here, this 
is something different—ran automobile account. 
See what you can make of it.” 

Gregory occupied himself with descriptions 
of the automobile until five o’clock, but he 
made nothing of them. Had anyone asked him 
the name of the car at the end of that time, 
he would probably have hestitated before re¬ 
plying. Fully two hours were necessary for 
him to realize that, after all, he was merely 
an inexperienced copy writer in a large adver¬ 
tising company. He dreamed of the blah- 


COMMENCEMENT 51 

blah bird. He invented further qualities and 
habits for that bird, but the automobile re¬ 
mained a commonplace, uninteresting com¬ 
modity. 

At five o’clock he deposited the litter of 
papers which covered his desk in one of the 
drawers and went out to the washroom. When 
he returned, there was a note, or rather, ac¬ 
cording to the title it bore, a “memo” awaiting 
him. 

Memo. 

For Mr. Thrumm: 

Klint has telephoned that Doctors* Drug Co. is 
enthusiastic. Must be worked over a little. See me 
first thing in the morning. 

F. H. Blooker. 

P. S.—Your salary beginning this morning is $50 per 
week. 

KEEP BOOSTING IT ! 


That night Gregory and Leonora celebrated. 
Leonora, to be sure, was not certain that they 
ought to spend the money, but Gregory had 
already bought theater tickets, and it was not 
hard to prevail upon her to go somewhere to 
dance afterward). Once during the evening 
Gregory remembered his thought maze of that 
noon, but easy success and Leonora’s face 
close to his as they danced, banished silly, un¬ 
profitable speculations. The world, he now 


COMMENCEMENT 


52 

glibly decided, was to be enjoyed. During his 
college days he had once definitely adopted 
hedonism as a philosophy. It had been quickly 
abandoned, but the short period had left its 
impress. Now the arguments in its favor were 
easily recalled. During one dance he pressed 
his lips into Leonora’s hair. 

“Gregory! Remember where you are.” 

“I am close to you, with my arm about you.” 

Leonora smiled and squeezed his hand. 

Upon leaving the restaurant, he forced her 
into a taxicab. 

“But, Gregory, we’ve really celebrated 
enough for one night, don’t you think?” 

“If you object any more, we’ll go out and 
celebrate again to-morrow night. As long as 
I’ve got to be a snappy business man, I’m going 
to be a real one.” 

Leonora laughed. “You know father said 
the other night after you left that you’d never 
make any money.” 

Gregory studied the red tip of his cigarette. 
“Supposing I shouldn’t? Suppose this were 
just a fluke?” 

“Gregory, you mustn’t talk like that. You 
mustn’t get this way.” 

He made no reply. 

“Please, Gregory, don’t take all the pleasure 
out of our evening. We’ve had such a good 
time.” 

He did not move. “But I’m not going to 


COMMENCEMENT 53 

become just a wheel, a ‘body substantive.’ 
Fm not.” His hands, extended before him in 
gesture, dropped. The word blah-blah rose 
unprompted into his mind. He turned 
abruptly and drew Leonora into his arms. 
“You must love me—always.” 



CHAPTER THREE 


Among others, there were two major rea¬ 
sons for Gregory’s delay in paying the call he 
so clearly owed to his Aunt Annie. Previous 
to his entering college, she had been the fa¬ 
vorite of all his relatives, but when he had 
visited her during his first vacation, he had 
found, to his discomfort, that she no longer 
touched his sympathies. He realized that the 
change was in himself. She recalled to him 
with annoying clarity the ideals and sentiments 
of his early adolescence. She held several ten¬ 
der confidences of his which, even though not 
mentioned between them, he could not forget 
while he was with her. There was the mem¬ 
ory of one rainy Sunday afternoon in particu¬ 
lar when he had said to her—^he could not for¬ 
get the exact words—“I don’t think many men 
are capable of really loving—of a great love.” 
Aunt Annie had smiled and kissed him. Also, 
when he had left, she had given him a ten- 
dollar bill. Gregory writhed at this memory. 
The second reason Catherine had developed 
and fostered: ‘'Go on up, Greg. She’s look¬ 
ing for some deserving knight to leave her 
money to.” He thought of the money. He 
could not help thinking of it, and, at times, 
54 





COMMENCEMENT 


55 


calculations including it entered into his 
fancies. But the idea of going to see her for 
this reason became so inverted in his mind as to 
constitute a reason for staying away. There 
was stubbornness in his character, an active 
stubbornness which often engendered contrari¬ 
ness. 

As a consequence, it was several weeks after 
his return from college before he finally went to 
pay his call upon her. By that time he had 
become somewhat accustomed to his new life. 
He was learning the rhythm of routine, the 
power of repetition to lull dissatisfaction and 
grievances. Aunt Annie must be called upon 
sometime. His stubbornness relaxed. 

He sat stiffly in a wide, green-velvet arm¬ 
chair. Uncle Alfred bristled proudly in his 
massive gold frame, seeming, in the repressed 
light of the room, to withdraw haughtily into 
the somber background. Gregory turned and 
peered through the lace curtains at the mass of 
variegated green which was Central Park, and 
at the vague outlines of buildings beyond. He 
imagined Aunt Annie on moonlight nights, sit¬ 
ting there and dreaming of dear Alfred and of 
days gone by. The velvet portieres at the end 
of the room rustled, and a plump, jewel-hung 
hand was thrust through. Aunt Annie ap¬ 
peared, smiling with determined optimism and 
gaiety. 


COMMENCEMENT 


56 

'1 thought you were never coming to see me 
again, Gregory. Haven’t you a little kiss for 
me?” 

Gregory received a wet, boisterous kiss. As 
his aimt turned to sit down, he wiped his 
mouth with the back of his hand. He re¬ 
sumed his seat. “I’ve been very busy since I 
got back.” 

“I’ve heard you were working already. And 
I’ve heard something else, too.” She threat¬ 
ened him playfully with her index finger. 

“Why—I don’t know what you mean.” 
Gregory looked out of the window. 

“Oh yes, you do.” 

“You mean-” 

“Gregory, I’m surprised at you. You seem 
ashamed of it. When are you going to bring 
her to see me?” 

“I hadn’t thought about it.” 

“You must bring her soon. I’m so anxious 
to see her. When is it going to happen?” 

“Oh, probably not for a long time yet. We 
haven’t decided. When I’m earning enough 
money.” 

“You’re so practical. Your Uncle Alfred 
and I didn’t wait, and we were poorer than you 
are. I’m afraid you’re going to disappoint me, 
Gregory.” 

“Disappoint you? How do you mean?” 

She waved a finger at him again. “I’m not 
going to tell you. It all depends upon your- 



COMMENCEMENT 57 

self. That’s my secret. I’ll tell you what I 
will do, though. I’ll quote you a verse from 
one of my favorite poems, a beautiful, exquisite 
thing: 

The laggard in love is the laggard in life, 

Afraid of heart pangs, afraid of all strife, 

Too timid to snatch the bliss in its flight, 

A weakling who starts at the shadows of night.* 

‘‘You’ve probably heard it before, haven’t 
you?” 

“No, I don’t think I have.” 

She smiled. “I was only joking. Of 
course you haven’t. You can’t guess who wrote 
it.” 

Gregory’s eyes were arrested by the por¬ 
trait above the mantlepiece. “Uncle Alfred,” 
he said upon sudden inspiration. 

“How did you ever guess it? He sent that 
to me the night before we eloped. Have you 
ever written any poetry?” 

“No,” he lied. 

“You are awfully disappointing sometimes, 
Gregory. I’d always thought you were more 
imaginative and romantic than you seem to 
be.” She sighed. “You mustn’t let yourself 
get hard like Catherine. It’s pitiful that a girl 
like that, a mere child, should become so 
worldly. I can’t understand it. She refers 
to anything good as ‘sloppy.’ That is the way 
she speaks of the higher things of life— 
‘sloppy!’ ” 


COMMENCEMENT 


58 

Gregory tried unsuccessfully to think of 
some answer. 

“She was never interested in things like that, 
anyway, but I always thought you were. 
Gregory”—she leaned forward—“you mustn’t 
let yourself be carried away by sordid, low 
things. Remember those lines from Words¬ 
worth : 

“ ‘ The world is too much with us; late and soon, 

Getting and spending, we lay waste our 
powers” 

At that moment Gregory’s taste underwent 
a slight change. He had always admired that 
particular sonnet, but now, by Aunt Annie, it 
was transferred into something fatuous and in¬ 
sincere—like the one of Uncle Alfred’s about 
the flying bliss, he thought. “The world is too 
much with us.” The only way to get away 
from it would be to commit suicide. Why 
shouldn’t the world be with us? It would be 
pleasant to see Aunt Annie dropped with a 
bump on some rocky spot of the world. He 
wished that she would stop talking, stop using 
that word “ideal,” and that one, too, “higher.” 
Why should the excellence of a thing be meas¬ 
ured perpendicularly? 

“Gregory, do you know what I’m forced to 
suspect when anyone like you comes to see 
me?” 

“I don’t know what you mean.” 


COMMENCEMENT 


59 

‘That he or she, whoever it is, hopes to have 
some of my money when Fm gone.” 

Gregory blushed and stammered a profuse 
denial. 

“But how am I to be sure that is not the 
case?’ 

“I—I don’t see any reason for you to think 
that.” 

“You don’t know, Gregory, how it feels to 
grow old and be alone. You imagine all sorts 
of things. I don’t see how people who have 
a little money can ever be sure of their friends. 
Only the other day I was reading a book about 
a wealthy old man. A lot of his relatives . . 

Gregory waited patiently till the end of the 
story. Names and relationships were hope¬ 
lessly jumbled about a disjointed plot, but the 
analogy between the book and his own situation 
was not lost upon him. 

“But, Aunt Annie, I haven’t any thought of 
what you suggest,” he declared when her nar¬ 
ration was ended. 

“How could I ever be really sure^? If you 
were thinking of that, you’d be the first one 
to deny it.” 

The evening dragged painfully for Gregory. 
At first he felt an active resentment toward 
Aunt Annie, but this soon waned. She was 
generous at heart, he knew, and, moreover, she 
held the courage of her convictions. She be¬ 
lieved in the value of emotional sentiment. 


6o 


COMMENCEMENT 


She stood up for and preached her belief. The 
blah-blah bird grinned evilly at him whenever 
he looked into the shadows of the room. 

A dream-fattened old woman. The phrase 
pleased him. The satisfaction resulting from 
having coined it alleviated his annoyance. He 
studied her critically. Would her romance 
have thrived as lustily if she and Uncle Alfred 
had remained poor*? It was a well-fed, cor¬ 
pulent romance. It seemed somehow unhealthy 
—obese. 

“And now, Gregory, I won’t keep you any 
longer.” 

“But I—if you want me to go—” 

“A young man who’s engaged hasn’t time to 
spend talking to stupid old aunts. Oh, I 
know!” Her finger waggled at Gregory. 

As Gregory waited in the hallway for the 
elevator, he wiped his mouth thoughtfully. 

“I know damned well,” he said, half aloud, 
“that if we eloped she’d back me up.” He 
shrugged his shoulders. How could he call on 
her again when she thought he was coming for 
her money? But wasn’t that really the only 
reason he did go to see her? It would, of 
course, be decidedly thrilling to inherit all 
that money. Leonora . . . 

She leaned her elbows upon the sill of the 
gable window and gazed across the tops of 
the waving trees. Her arms were round and 
white. A cream-colored rose nestled in the 


COMMENCEMENT 6i 

plait of hair which swept across her forehead. 
Aunt Annie smiled complacently. 

As the weeks passed, Gregory found that, if 
he would maintain his revolt against a mere 
business career, he must make conscious and 
continual effort. He lazily realized that 
monotony was further dulling the edge of his 
already vague idealism. The days passed in 
studying prospectuses, in racking his imagi¬ 
nation for the fresh or the bizarre. His eve¬ 
nings were robbed of much futile reflection by 
Leonora’s tantalizing desirability. Almost 
without consideration, his job and Leonora had 
become the stable facts around which his life 
revolved. It was to his work that he must 
cling if he were to hold Leonora to himself. 
As a solid center, it rendered his world homo¬ 
geneous. He found his mind unconsciously 
reiterating Mr. Blooker’s fist-emphasized hom¬ 
ilies. Stubbornness or purpose, resistance or 
force, stirred at times, but facts—existing, liv¬ 
ing facts—overwhelmed the barrier or resisted 
the attack. At college he had, at the begin¬ 
ning of his sophomore year, decided to at¬ 
tempt the winning of honors. Again and again, 
during the succeeding years, he had wondered 
whether his effort for honors was worth the re¬ 
ward, whether the three years’ struggle was not 
robbing him of much in college life which he 


62 


COMMENCEMENT 


would later regret. Jimmy Seffem’s dilettant¬ 
ism attracted him strongly. But the striving 
for honors was already begun. The goal stood 
ahead, a definite end, and he was somehow 
powerless to deviate from his course. To a 
considerable extent his job and Leonora had 
filled the gap left by his attainment of honors. 

He had been writing advertisements for 
more than a month when his doubts were 
again deeply stirred. A Sunday morning late 
in July, Gregory, at his father’s suggestion, 
borrowed the smaller of the two family auto¬ 
mobiles and took Leonora into the country for a 
day’s excursion. As the automobile left the 
straight, monotonous streets of the city and 
came out upon the winding and more open 
road through the suburbs, Gregory increased 
the weight of his foot upon the throttle. The 
pressure of the seat against his back exhil¬ 
arated him. He grasped the wheel tightly and 
rounded the curves in the road with meticulous 
care. He was keenly conscious of his power 
over the humming engine before him. He 
swung the windshield out so that he might feel 
the steady rushing of the air against his cheeks. 
A strand of Leonora’s hair whipped against 
his forehead and he turned to smile at her. For 
answer she moved closer to him. 

The engine merged into his own personality. 
It became an appendage mastered by his emo¬ 
tions and his will, an extension grafted to his 


COMMENCEMENT 63 

finger tips. He set his lips firmly and drove 
the car faster and faster along the road. The 
exhilaration of sheer force swept into him. He 
was mastering a ruthless power, driving it to¬ 
ward a definite point. He ignored the road¬ 
side; nothing existed except force and its ob¬ 
jective. Another automobile appeared ahead. 
The distance between the two lessened surely 
and perceptibly. One approaching the other, 
they swept up a long hill. Gregory smiled 
grimly as he heard the clatter of changing gears 
from the automobile ahead. At the brow of 
the hill he sounded his horn preparatory to 
swerving ahead. Abruptly he jammed his foot 
down upon the brake. Under the shade 
of a tree some hundred yards ahead, stood a 
policeman beside his motorcycle. 

“Gregory, if you’re not careful you’ll be 
arrested.” 

“Saw him just in time,” mumbled Gregory. 
“Anyway, I won the race. He’s one of the 
‘strange waves.’ ” 

“What?’ 

“Oh, nothing. I was thinking about a play 
I’ve been reading.” He hoped Leonora would 
not ask for an explanation, but when she did 
not, he was disappointed. She seemed devoid 
of intellectual curiosity. 

“You looked more as if you were going to 
eat up the other car than pass it.” 

“I feel like eating things up to-day.” 


COMMENCEMENT 


64 

like itr 

“What*? Eating things up?” 

“No, having you this way.” 

Again Gregory exerted pressure with his 
foot. This time he passed the car ahead. He 
smiled complacently when he saw that it was of 
a make superior to that of his own. 

“You drive awfully well.” 

“Oh, I haven’t driven for a long time—six; 
months, I guess. I wish I could write advertise¬ 
ments for cars as well as I can run them, 
though.” He skillfully avoided a depression 
in the road. “I had a warning from Blooker 
a few days ago.” 

“A warning! What about?” 

“Oh, he told me Fd have to wake up—that 
after starting off with a bang Fd gone flat and 
stale.” 

“But I thought you were getting along so 
well. Oh, that’s too bad. When did it hap¬ 
pen?” 

“Oh, a few days ago. Last Monday, I think 
it was.” 

“Last Monday! And this is Sunday. Oh, 
Gregory, why didn’t you tell me as soon as it 
happened?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. There wasn’t any use in 
worrying you. Anyway, it’s all right now.” 
He felt no desire to quarrel with Leonora. 
Moreover, he was relieved that he had at last 
found the courage to tell her this unpleasant 


COMMENCEMENT 65 

bit of news. “I needed it. Blooker’s all right. 
I felt more ambitious and confident after I’d 
talked with him than I ever did before. The 
blah-blah bird business gave me stage fright. 
I realized it was a fluke and I was afraid I’d 
never be able to repeat it. I’m working on a 
booklet for the Trojan Hotel now.” 

‘‘Well, I’m glad you feel that way.” 

“I got what I needed. Don’t let it worry 
you.” At all events, living was a pleasant ex¬ 
perience. There would always be Sunday 
mornings like this when one might get away 
from work and the city. Even without an 
automobile, one could always get out into the 
country. The future was uncertain, true, but 
if one held the wheel firmly and kept one’s wits, 
trouble could usually be avoided. Blooker 
was right. “It’s entirely up to you, Thrumm. 
;You can do it if you decide to.” 

Gregory deftly passed one car and, at the 
same time, avoided another coming in the op¬ 
posite direction. 

“You really mustn’t take such chances. No 
matter how well you may drive, there’s always 
the chance that the other person may lose his 
head.” 

It was satisfying, having Leonora warn him 
not to be reckless. She had seen nothing then 
of the momentary panic he had felt at the 
narrowness of the squeeze between the two 
cars. 


66 


COMMENCEMENT 


Suddenly he swung off into a side road. 

“Wh-where are you goingThis is awfully 
bumpy.” 

“There are too many cars on the main road. 
I wanted to get away from people to-day. I 
suppose that’s what they all want to do.” 

“I don’t think you’ll meet anybody here. 
What awful ruts!” 

At length, without warning, the road ended. 
Before them was the shimmering expanse of 
Long Island Sound. Gregory pulled his brake 
up tightly, stopped the engine, and settled 
down in his seat. 

“Well, you succeeded in getting away from 
people,” observed Leonora, as abrupt quiet 
succeeded the throbbing of the motor. 

“You know, I think I’d rather have a sail¬ 
boat than an automobile—^no noise and you 
can get away by yourself in no time at all.” 

“They’re awfully dangerous.” 

“Not if you know how to manage them. 
That would be ideal—a place somewhere on 
the water and a little boat. Off there, for in¬ 
stance, you could cut a place in those trees 
and build a little house and have a wharf.” 
Gregory leaned forward and described, partly 
with words and partly by vague gestures, the 
sort of place he had in mind. 

“It would be lovely, wouldn’t it?” There 
was a certain wistfulness in her voice. 

“Leonora”—^he leaned toward her and put 


COMMENCEMENT 67 

his hand on hers—“let’s stop this waiting, this 
drifting. Let’s not be so afraid of the future. 
I love you. I want you now, not next year or 
the year after that. Let’s get married now, to¬ 
morrow, as soon as we can—^just go off to¬ 
gether.” His arm was about her and he was 
gazing pleadingly into her eyes. “I love you 
so much!” 

“No, please, Gregory. It would be foolish.” 

“Why? We could live on what I’m making, 
and I have nearly two thousand dollars in the 

bank. And-” He remembered Aunt 

Annie’s smiling face. Her name and an as¬ 
surance of her support were on his lips. He 
hesitated. No, if Leonora gave in it must not 
be for any reason like that. “And you must 
have some confidence in me, otherwise we 
wouldn’t be engaged.” 

“But something might happen.” 

“Even if I were rich, something might 
happen. To-morrow, Leonora. I’ll get a few 
days off from the office. We’ll get married to¬ 
morrow afternoon. Think what an adventure 
it will be, doing it this way!” 

“Gregory, I-” 

“You love me. Don’t you want to?” 

“Yes, but-” 

He took her in his arms and bore his lips 
down upon hers. He felt her arms tighten 
about him, and he pressed her body to his with 
all his force. 




68 COMMENCEMENT 

‘"Gregory, we ought to wait—to think about 
it first.’’ 

“Why think about it? No one can find out 
anything about the future by thinking about 
it. Will you do it?” 

“Give me till to-night to decide.” 

“The few hours won’t help any.” 

“Please, Gregory. I love you. You know 
that.” She dropped her head to his shoulder 
and held him close in her arms. Then, impul¬ 
sively, she sat up. 

Gregory saw that there were tears in her 
eyes. “Leonora”—his touch became gentle— 
“we’re getting in the habit of worrying too 
much, of thinking about the future instead of 
getting the most out of the present. I’ll give 
you till to-night, though—until I leave you. 
But you do think you’ll do it, though, don’t 
you?” 

“I—I want to.” 

“My beloved!” 

Again the smoothly running engine seemed 
to Gregory to be driven by the beating of his 
heart. On the main road, he threaded his way 
through the knots of traffic with skillful as¬ 
surance, and sped unheedingly along the clear 
stretches of black, glossy pavement. He stared 
directly ahead and answered Leonora’s ques¬ 
tions tersely, without hesitating before his re¬ 
ply. Where would they live? They could 
look for a place after they were married. They 


COMMENCEMENT 


69 

would find something. And furniture? His 
father would undoubtedly fit them out. They 
would want only a room or two, and then next 
year they would build a little place somewhere 
in the country. The car slipped quietly into 
the reaches of the city. 

When Gregory had called for Leonora that 
day, the phonograph to which Mrs. Frail ob¬ 
jected so strongly had been playing the ‘‘Medi¬ 
tation” from “Thais.” MHien Gregory and 
Leonora returned at dusk, the phonograph was 
playing “I Gotta Have Booze.” 

“I understand how Eve must have felt when 
she was kicked out of Eden,” observed 
Leonora. 

“Still, all those animals must have made a 
terrible racket at night in the garden.” 

Leonora glanced disconsolately up at the 
face of the apartment house. A stony-eyed 
woman leaning upon a window ledge returned 
the glance. Leonora sighed and walked into 
the vestibule. “Come on, Gregory. I’m so 
glad you’re with me. I couldn’t stand it to go 
up alone and sit there all evening thinking of 
country roads and the wind cutting my cheeks.” 

They silently climbed the stairs. Leonora 
tried the door and found it unlocked. When 
she had swung it open, she stood listening. Her 
lips were slightly parted. Down the gloomy 
hallway came the strident vibrations of a 
woman’s voice. To Gregory it seemed that he 


go COMMENCEMENT 

had imagined that voice, but that he had never 
before heard it. At the same instant he recog¬ 
nized it as Mrs. PraiFs. 

“. . . thought of that before—twenty years 
ago. I’m the one who has to suffer, and you 
sit there looking calm and stupid.” 

There followed a brief silence. 

“Why don’t you say something^” 

Incongruously there came to Gregory’s mind 
the sequel, “shut up,” which he had heard suf¬ 
fixed to this question at a vaudeville perfor¬ 
mance some time before. 

“I have nothing to say. I have no defense.” 
Mr. Trail’s voice sounded calm and a little 
weary. 

“But what, in God’s name, are you going to 
do*?” 

“I shall find something.” 

“You’ll have to, or we’ll starve. But what 
are we going to do while you’re looking? 
That’s what I want to know. Doesn’t anything 
ever worry you? If you only seemed to realize 
what this means!” The final word was thin 
and squeaky. 

“Maybe you’d better not come in, Gregory,” 
whispered Leonora. 

He saw that her face was white and that the 
skin was drawn taut about her mouth. He 
looked at her without speaking. The situation 
was awkward, yet he ought not to go and leave 


COMMENCEMENT 


71 

Leonora while her eyes were wide with un¬ 
happiness. 

‘Why don’t you come somewhere with me?” 
he asked, taking her arm, 

“No, I can’t. I’d have to face it all later. 
I-” She chewed at her lip. “Oh, I sup¬ 

pose you might as well come in. I’m not go¬ 
ing to hide things from you. It’ll do you 
good.” 

Gregory stepped backward. There were 
glints of vindictiveness in Leonora’s eyes as 
she spoke. She entered the hall with a grace¬ 
less, jerky stride. He followed her apprehen¬ 
sively. 

To his relief, the living room was empty, 
but the voices, or rather the single grating 
voice, sounded shrilly from the dining room 
adjacent. He stood, ill at ease, beneath the 
chandelier and watched Leonora open the 
door. 

“. . . . heard the same thing too often. I 
can’t stand it any more. I can’t. And what’s 
more I won’t! I want-” 

Leonora entered the room. She did not 
close the door after her, so Gregory stepped 
aside that he might not witness the scene 
within. 

“Are you alone?” 

“No, Gregory’s here. What is it?” 

“Oh, why ask? You know very well what 




72 COMMENCEMENT 

it is/’ Mrs. PraiFs voice was lowered, but it 
had lost none of its rasp. ‘'The same old thing. 
Why don’t you close the door*?” 

“What’s the use?’ 

Gregory heard the bumping of a chair across 
the floor. Then Mr. Frail spoke. 

“Well, I can’t think of anything more to 
say about it.” 

“That’s right, go out and leave me to worry 
alone. Go in and spoil some more paper. 
We’ve got to save now, or we’ll starve to death, 
and I guess the first thing for you to do is to 
stop buying paper and books. If I see you com¬ 
ing home with another book. I’ll—I’ll throw 
it out of the window. You buy books every 
day or so. I haven’t eaten in a restaurant or 
been to the theater in a year.” 

By the tone of Mrs. Frail’s voice, Gregory 
concluded that his presence had been forgot¬ 
ten. He perched himself upon the window sill 
and rested his chin in his hands. 

“I’m not leaving you to worry alone. You 
seem to worry more when I’m here.” 

“Can’t you worry? Are you made of tin or 
something?” 

“I can and I do. I know it’s my fault that 
you’re unhappy, but I don’t see anything I can 
do just now.” 

“Do! Do! Something—anything! God 
knows I’d do something if I could. I’d leave 
you, if I had any place to go, or anything to do. 


COMMENCEMENT 73 

You’ve wasted my life, and you say you don’t 
see anything you can do.” 

“I shall find work—another job.” 

‘‘Oh, I suppose you will, but it won’t be so 
easy as it was the last time, and you’ll get less 
pay. You have every time, so far. Thank 
God Leonora ’ll be out of this soon!” 

Gregory raised his eyebrows and stared 
thoughtfully at the open door. Mt'. Frail 
stepped into the room. His hands were 
clasped behind his back, and his shoulders 
stooped more than ordinarily. 

“Good evening, Gregory. Do you remem¬ 
ber what I said about not marrying until you 
were earning twenty thousand a year‘?” 

“Yes.” Gregory stepped down from the 
window sill. 

“Be sure to heed the advice.” Mr. Frail 
left the room. 

Gregory climbed back to his seat and lit a 
cigarette. “You’ve got to keep your mind on 
the job and work like the devil to get anywhere 
in this world.” Yes, decidedly Mr. Blooker 
was right. Leonora was talking now, trying to 
comfort her mother. Her voice was deep and 
soft. In it there were no signs of harshness— 
no sharp points. She must be protected from 
such a life. He must drive swiftly, firmly, 
fearlessly. His hands grasped an imaginary 
wheel. 


74 COMMENCEMENT 

. . cry, mother. You mustn’t. After all, 
John won’t see us starve.” 

“Oh, it’s all right for you to talk. I’m get¬ 
ting old and I’m missing everything—every¬ 
thing but dirty, greasy dishes and dusty floors. 
I can’t stand it any longer. I can’t!” The 
“can’t” was spoken in a thin, shrill tone, and 
then, abruptly, her voice dropped. “But 
what’s the use of talking? I could do lots of 
things if I had money, but I haven’t got it. 
And I’ll never have it. Go on out, Leonora. 
I’m all right. You can’t leave him sitting in 
there alone all evening. Oh, why don’t they 
stop that damned phonograph!” 

Gregory turned about and leaned out of the 
window. The narrow strip of sky above the 
street was heavy with stars. A policeman 
strolled along the sidewalk and jauntily 
twirled his stick. Across the street, in a win¬ 
dow, a man cleared his throat and spat. The 
notes of the phonograph jangled in the space 
between the walls of houses. 

An" de powtch 

Wkea de mawnin-glowries hang 
Gives ma lohonsome haht a pang, 

Gregory struggled to throw off the dread 
which directed his thoughts. Instinctively he 
sought to focus the blame for her failure in 
life upon Mrs. Frail herself, but his rancor 
was confused and finally dissipated by the 


COMMENCEMENT 


75 

certainty that she really had been robbed of 
the few precious amenities of existence. Per¬ 
haps the contagious nervousness of her voice 
was the direct result of injustice. But who 
that married could be certain of his power to 
control the value and permanence of his 
labors? Yet there remained the injustice 
which withheld lives from fulfillment. Or 
could it be custom which was to blame—cus¬ 
tom which demanded that Mrs. Frail, and her 
daughter after her, should sit by passively 
while their happiness was determined for 
them? On the other hand, she was in no less 
desirable situation than millions who lived be¬ 
hind similar high, stupid walls. Or than those 
who dwelt ‘"whea de mawnin-glowries hang.” 
In the meantime, Mr. Frail complacently be¬ 
lieved himself a great but unrecognized au¬ 
thor, while his wife dreamed of herself as a 
brilliant, attractive woman. 

Gregory sighed and snapped his cigarette 
butt into the street. Dispiritedly he watched 
the sparks glow and expire. He raised his 
eyes. Through a window opposite he saw a 
woman nursing a baby. He turned away with 
a feeling of resentful disgust. 

Leonora had entered the room and was clos¬ 
ing the door. Her eyes were heavy and listles^ 

‘I’m sorry I left you alone so long. I had 
to try to comfort mother.” She dropped 
limply into a chair. “Well, I guess you know 


76 COMMENCEMENT 


my answer to our getting married in a hurry. 
We couldn’t have had a more direct warning. 
No, please don’t argue. I don’t know whether 
I ever want to marry anybody.” 

Gregory crossed to the Morris chair. He 
made no reply to her remark. He watched her, 
it seemed, dispassionately, as if he had not yet 
decided what sort of person she was. 

‘‘Go away and leave me, Gregory. I can’t 
ever make you happy. I’m going to find work 
and support myself.” 

“I wonder whether anyone is ever really 


happy.” 

“I knew a scene like this would cure you. 
So you’re willing to go?’ 

She raised her eyes to his, and he saw that 
life had flowed back into them. 


“Why don’t you go, then^ Why do you 
just sit there and stare at me?’ 

“I haven’t said I wanted to goT 
“But you do. I can tell it.” She talked 
rapidly, leaning forward in her chair, and, as 
she spoke, her eyes narrowed. “You said you 
weren’t happy—that no one could ever be. 
Let’s end it quickly.” She stood up. “Go— 
please. Now—before we get silly about it. 
Now—while we can see things as they are. 


Please!” 

“Do you really mean this?’ 

“Yes, of course I do. Why shouldn’t I*? 
You’ve heard everything, haven’t you? Why 


COMMENCEMENT 


77 

should I want to get married I don’t want 
children. I hate them. Are you going or not *?” 

Gregory stood up and, as he did so, Leonora 
dropped back into her chair and thrust her head 
into her hands. He leaned over her and placed 
his hand lightly upon her shoulder. “We 
mustn’t quarrel again. I’m awfully sorry.” 
He sat on the edge of her chair and drew her 
head into his arms. “I love you, Leonora. 
You know I do. You’ve seen too much 
trouble.” 

She sobbed quietly for a few moments. “I 
—I couldn’t stand it—to—to live like that. 
I couldn’t!” 

“I know how you feel.” 

She scrubbed her wet eyelids with her hand¬ 
kerchief. “Sit down over there—where you 
were. I want to talk to you.” 

Gregory obeyed. 

“You can’t possibly understand what all this 
means. I hope you never will.” She cleared 
her throat and rubbed her eyes again. “Your 
father has been successful. He’s been able to 
support his family in comfort. You don’t 
know what it means to be just able to manage. 
I suppose you think I’m worldly and—and 
practical about all this. I’m not. You don’t 
know anything about it. I’m just as romantic 
as anybody else, but you can’t keep romantic if 
the future is scaring you to death all the time. 
If we got married and you should ever come 


COMMENCEMENT 


78 

home and tell me you’d lost your job, I—I 
think Fd kill myself. Fve heard that too often. 
I know what it means—weeks of worry, make¬ 
shifts, temporary jobs. I couldn’t stand that 
the rest of my life. I couldn’t!” 

Gregory watched the patterns in the carpet. 

“Fve seen mother cry and father look calm 
and ineffectual too often. And look at all 
this.” She waved her hand about the room. 
“I don’t want money, but I do want comfort— 
comfort that will last. You try being romantic 
under these conditions. All we’d ever do is 
haggle and wrangle. Poverty may be ro¬ 
mantic enough in a book, but you finish a book 
in a few hours and then it’s all over. This 
lasts forever. For all I know, father may be a 
genius. Anyway, I wouldn’t want to be the 
wife of a genius. But I’m not mercenary, 
Gregory. I’m as romantic as anybody else, 

but-” She dropped her hands listlessly 

over the sides of the chair. 

know you are.” He stepped quickly to 
her and took her in his arms. “You mustn’t 
worry. I love you. I adore you.” He kissed 
her throat, her pale cheeks, and, finally her. 
lips. They were cool, firm lips, but, as hd 
pressed his own more tightly against them, he 
felt them becoming warmer and more pliable. 
Her arms reached up and strained his body 
against her own. He opened his eyes and saw. 



COMMENCEMENT 


79 

that hers were closed. He studied the long 
dark lashes resting uncertainly upon the white 
skin. He closed his eyes again to be more con¬ 
scious of her awakening lips. He moved his 
hand so that he might stroke the soft curve 
of her cheek. . . . 

“No, Gregory. No, we mustn’t. It’s too 
dangerous.” Leonora walked across the room 
and stared out of the window. She shrugged 
her shoulders and turned abruptly toward him. 
“We’ll go and get silly again if we’re not 
careful.” 

Gregory grumbled incoherently and lit a 
cigarette. He avoided Leonora’s eyes. 

“You’re angry.” 

“No. Why should I be?” He was puzzled 
to find how quickly his feelings toward Leonora 
had changed, and he was annoyed with himself 
that he could find no logical reason for the ces¬ 
sation of sympathy between them. 

“Listen, Gregory, I think you’d better go. 
No, please don’t get angry. We’re both upset 
and out of sorts. It’s my fault, I know. But 
I’m afraid we’ll quarrel if you stay.” 

Gregory stood up and walked toward the 
door. 

“Promise me you’ll come back to-morrow 
night.” 

He hesitated. “All right.” 

“Kiss me good night.” She walked across 
the room and offered him her lips. 


8 o 


COMMENCEMENT 


He brushed them lightly with his own and 
thereupon turned and walked down the hall. 

He had bowed before her will, her weakness. 
After all, it was she who decided questions be¬ 
tween them. Her life had trained her to place 
confidence in no one. Her decisions were nega¬ 
tive; they were founded on the safety of de¬ 
spair. An impotent pity seized upon him. He 
would take her away and shelter her, but she 
refused to go. Perhaps she saw weakness in 
himself, the weakness that was her father’s. 
Could she be right? He refused to consider 
the question. 

Gregory walked thoughtfully down the steps 
before the apartment house. 

‘'Good evening again.” 

“Oh, Mr. Prail. Good evening. I didn’t 
see you.” 

Mr. Prail was standing on the curb, the toes 
of his shoes projecting over the gutter. After 
he had addressed Gregory, he turned his gaze 
back to the cornice of the building opposite. 
Gregory walked up beside him. 

“You and my daughter haven’t quarreled, 
I hope.” 

“No.” 

“Of course, you wouldn’t tell me if you had. 
You usually leave later, though. It hardly 
seems possible that a lover should waste the 
most languorous night of the year.” 


COMMENCEMENT 8i 

Gregory could think of no reply. He smiled 
weakly. 

“I suppose that glimpse of tragedy you 
caught this evening discouraged you. I know 
it did Leonora. It was not, I should say, an 
inspiring scene for a lover.’’ 

“It made me think.” 

“And how could one make love and think at 
the same time? To-night is not for thought. 
If I were young I should make the most of such 
velvety blackness. But I say that only be¬ 
cause I am old.” 

Gregory kicked nervously with his heel 
against the curb. From the corner of his eyes 
he could see Mr. Frail, his hands clasped be¬ 
hind him and his head thrown far back. Greg¬ 
ory became aware of a growing feeling of 
discomfort. He feared that he might be listen¬ 
ing to an overflow of self-pity. He wondered 
whether it would be possible to say good night 
and go away, without offending Mr. Frail. 

“Do you love Leonora, Gregory?” 

“Why, yes—of course!” 

“You are quite sure?” 

“We’re engaged to be married.” 

“Of course, of course. And she has no 
money. Why do you love her?” 

“Why, that’s very hard to say definitely. I 
don’t think a person in love ever reasons it all 
out. You sort of feel it.” 

“Yes. If only there were some way to cap- 


COMMENCEMENT 


82 

ture and hold those feelings, once we’ve got 
them. But I shouldn’t be talking to you about 
such things. I’ve already done enough wrong 
to Leonora. Personally, I think she might 
have done much better, but, as long as she has 
chosen you, I see no reason that I should inter¬ 
fere.” 

“I—I didn’t know you objected.” 

“Oh, not in the way you mean. I’m quite 
sure your character is not objectionable. Am 
I keeping you? I never thought that you 
might have have some reason for hurrying 
away.” 

“No. I was planning to take a walk up 
along Riverside Drive and go home.” 

“This night is too alluring to miss. Do you 
mind if I walk with you?” 

Gregory assured Mr. Prail that he did not 
mind, and they set off together at an ambling 
gait. Mr. Prail still held his hands clasped 
behind his back, but his eyes, instead of being 
raised to the sky, were now fixed upon the 
sidewalk. As they walked, Gregory noticed 
that Mr. Prail was poorly, almost shabbily 
dressed. His collar sagged, and his necktie 
drooped upon his shirt front. His black felt 
hat was cocked at an awkward angle. He was 
a tall man, and yet he stood so that his head 
was almost on a level with Gregory’s. 

“Do you mind if I ask you why you do object 
to me?” asked Gregory, finally. 


COMMENCEMENT 


83 

‘‘I don’t object to you. I was merely con¬ 
sidering the matter from Leonora’s point of 
view. Being accustomed to a drab home, she 
naturally longs for a colorful one. Such homes 
as she desires can be acquired only by wealth. 
Do you expect to be wealthy?” 

‘ 1 —I hope to earn a comfortable income.” 

‘‘Do your ideas of comfort and Leonora’s 
coincide?” 

“I think so.” 

“Gregory, you must stop using such expres¬ 
sions as 1 hope’ and ‘I think.’ I also hoped 
and thought at one time, and I am not a fit 
hero for any young man to worship. Unless 
I am very much mistaken, you have already 
thought of the possibility of failure.” 

“I have.” 

“Does that thought make you work harder, 
or does it make you wonder whether, after all, 
the effort is worth while?” 

“I wonder sometimes.” 

“If you wish to change—and I don’t be¬ 
lieve it’s too late yet—one of the first things 
you must do is to school yourself to pay no at¬ 
tention to such persons as myself. You may 
think me a silly old ass. I may be one. But 
you must convince yourself absolutely that I 
am, and have the courage to tell me so more or 
less politely. Have you literary or artistic 
ambitions of any sort?” 

“I used to think of writing.” 


84 COMMENCEMENT 

“I’m glad to hear you say you ‘used to.’ 
Never do it again. If you read, read novels 
with placid endings. Go to see burlesque shows 

_anything to keep yourself from thinking of 

life as it is. Above all, don’t think deeply. 
Thinking—analysis of yourself—will spell fi¬ 
nancial ruin. Be ambitious to build up a big 
soap factory, to sell a new brand of garter- 
anything of that sort—and think of nothing else 
but sleeping and eating, with a little necessary 
amusement now and again, and, of course, a lit¬ 
tle sex for spice. You may say that’s a worth¬ 
less sort of life, but it isn’t. The man who 
builds a good soap factory is doing a far greater 
work than most of those who think they’re lead¬ 
ing a higher life and developing our literature.” 

“You defend the tired business man, then?” 

“I dislike catch phrases of that sort. A 
business man has just as much right to get 
tired as anyone else has. Artists, using the 
term in its broader sense, object to him because 
he is too tired by his own work to take interest 
in theirs. As a matter of fact, there are cer¬ 
tainly fewer artists who take an interest in the 
manufacture of soap or underwear than there 
are business men who interest themselves in 
struggling young poets. But each of them takes 
the other’s output for granted. Of course, you 
may say that the artist uses soap and under¬ 
wear, but that is merely because he has to. 
The business man doesn’t have to use the com- 


COMMENCEMENT 85 

modity provided by the young poet. All of 
which conclusively proves that soap and under¬ 
wear are far more necessary than poems.’’ 

“You wouldn’t recommend that the world 
get along without poems, would you?” asked 
Gregory, somewhat bewildered. 

“No. The world never will be without 
them, even if it wishes to. There are those who 
have to sing, but these are a small few. Our 
problem is to get rid of those who sing merely 
because they rather fancy themselves in the 
character of birds.” 

“But if those who don’t invent songs or 
poems or pictures pay no attention to them, the 
products of the artists are rather wasted, aren’t 
they?” 

“That, Gregory, is the tragedy of it. How 
many people do you suppose there are, besides 
the artists and a few of their camp followers, 
in this city who read with pleasure and under¬ 
standing—let us say Keats’ ‘Ode to a Nightin¬ 
gale ?’ And it is best that there should be only 
a handful. Otherwise, the quality of our soap 
would deteriorate. What would happen to a 
soap factory if its business manager were to 
have such lines as these running sympatheti¬ 
cally through his mind?” Mr. Frail again 
gazed absently up at the sky as he recited: 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known. 

The weariness, the fever, and the fret 


86 COMMENCEMENT 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; 

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs. 
Where youth grows pale, and specter-thin, and 
dies; 

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs; 

Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes. 

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow/ 

“They are beautiful, Gregory, but their very 
beauty is found in helplessness, in the tragedy 
of which I was speaking. I am discouraging 
you, I know. I ought not to. But do you your¬ 
self see the beauty of those lines?” 

“I do—^more so than I ever did before.” 

“And now that you have seen it, you will be 
less happy, less contented than you were. If 
you remember them when you are— By the 
way, what is your business?” 

“Advertising.” 

“Oh yes. Well, when you are writing, let 
us say, an advertisement for tooth paste, will 
they spur you on to fresh efforts, or will they 
make you wonder what all this is about, any¬ 
way? The answer, I’m sure, is obvious. That 
is why I warn you away.” 

“But isn’t it possible to steer a middle 
course? I’m sure there are those who do.” 

“I believe there are. I have never met any. 
But to do that a man must be very wise indeed. 
You may be able to do it. I could not. The 
competition is too keen. The man who devotes 
his life to creating and building in the business 


COMMENCEMENT 87 

world must necessarily outstrip him who takes 
never so little time for dreaming, for exploring 
the mysteries of his own being. To return to 
Leonora: she demands spacious comfort and, 
above all else, freedom from worry—security. 
If you marry her and come home to her some 
night with the news that you are out of work, 
that your income is, for the present, cut off, her 
affection for you will be swallowed up in her 
abnormal fear of poverty, and you, in turn, will 
lose a small amount of your precious self- 
confidence, the commodity above all others 
that you must cherish. I think you could make 
yourself successful if you determined to and 
set about it properly, but you must put aside 
these desires for a broader life. Perhaps some 
day it may become possible for young men 
not to give themselves entirely to their work. 
That is what we dream of.’’ 

For some moments they walked in silence. 
Far up the river, on the opposite bank, Greg¬ 
ory saw the blur of lights which was Palisades 
Amusement Park. Such places as that, he 
thought, were built to aid people in their flight 
from thinking. And down below, in the park, 
there were hundreds seeking the spice of sex 
which Mr. Prail had mentioned. Queer that 
Leonora’s father should talk to him in this 
manner. Was the man really wise, or was all 
this the result of bitterness? Gregory won¬ 
dered. 


88 


COMMENCEMENT 


“I shouldn’t talk to you like this, I know. 
Leonora would never forgive me. It’s really 
not fair to her. Somehow, to-night I feel like 
talking. I don’t usually get lonesome, but I 
did to-night. I tried to write, but I couldn’t. 
I’m not quite old enough yet to be immune to 
such a night as this. I shan’t allow Leonora to 
introduce me to her next lover.” 

“You expect more, thenT’ 

“No, no. I forgot. You’re to be the last— 
her last lover. I wonder whether Leonora 
finds anything sad in that thought. Probably 
not. However, we must always be prepared 
for eventualities. Do you find nothing sad in 
the thought that you have decided this to be 
your last romance?” 

“I hadn’t thought of it in that way.” 

“Perhaps that’s it. Probably one never does. 
I didn’t. Few of us ever dismiss all possi¬ 
bilities.” 

“There is where I live—across the street.” 

Mr. Prail studied the facade of the apart¬ 
ment house. “Your father, I gather, has not 
failed in his duty toward his family.” 

“No.” 

“He is in the advertising business, too?” 

“No. He is the manager of”—Gregory 
smiled quizzically—“of a soap factory.” 

“Fortunate man. He is of some use in the 
world. I am not. You must determine that 
you will be. Do you write advertisements?” 


COMMENCEMENT 


89 


‘‘Yes/’ 

“You have, haven’t you, what would be 
called a very good position for a young man 
of your age*?” 

Gregory described his work and the manner 
in which his salary had been doubled. 

“I can’t understand why you should be dis¬ 
contented. In all my life I never made more 
than fifty dollars a week. Are your advertise¬ 
ments still as much praised as the first one 
was?” 

“No, none of them have been. I fell down 
altogether on an automobile advertisement. 
After that I wrote a spaghetti advertisement 
which was considered fair—good enough— 
something about this spaghetti being the per¬ 
fect expression of Italian cooking.” 

“Keep interested in your business, Gregory. 
If you lose this job you probably won’t do as 
well next time. Keep your mind fixed on what 
you’ve got, not on what you haven’t got. 
Banal, isn’t it? And that gives me an idea. 
Let me see—what’s the usual form? Oh yes. 
Now listen to me, Gregory, I’m about to invent 
a famous quotation. Here goes. Happy the 
man—I always have liked that beginning— 
happy the man who can hear banalities with a 
fresh ear. That’s a sound statement, Greg¬ 
ory. Think it over and you’ll see.” 

Gregory smiled faintly. 

“Well, I have given you much useless ad- 


COMMENCEMENT 


90 

vice, advice which I myself should never ac¬ 
cept, and I have thereby proved conclusively 
to you—and perhaps to myself, too—that I 
am an old fool. There’s no fool like an old 
fool,’ you know. My mind runs to that sort 
of thing to-night. But you must believe I am, 
anyway. Do you do much reading^” 

‘‘Not as much as I’d hoped to do. I don’t 
find a great deal of time.” 

“Fine! Keep away from it as much as pos¬ 
sible. It’s enervating, especially for a young 
man. Perhaps, after all, I have misjudged 
you. From what you say, you may have 
adapted yourself to your environment more 
completely than I had suspected. You will 
always be busy, I hope. It is that which will 
keep you safe. By the way, what was that ad¬ 
vertisement for, again 
“Prophylax.” 

“Is it good^ Prophylax, I mean^” 

“I really don’t know.” 

“Oh, well. Good night, Gregory. If you 
have any more advertisements of that sort to 
write, you might glance over the first part of 
Gargantua. Good night.” 

Gregory watched Mr. Prail until the gaunt, 
shambling figure had faded into the darkness. 
Then Gregory grunted and crossed the street. 


CHAPTER FOUR 


It was typical of Gregory that, during the 
succeeding days, he should spend every avail¬ 
able spare moment in reading. Jonathan Frail 
had driven him to it. Jonathan Frail was 
merely a sour old man, one who had made a 
mess of his own life. Therefore, his advice 
was spurious. He took too great a delight in 
posing as a cynic. Gregory vividly imagined 
the keen pleasure to be gained in proving Mr. 
FraiFs injunctions as worthless as the man him¬ 
self. After leaving Leonora of an evening, 
Gregory hurried home and, before going to bed, 
passed an hour or more in reading. Life had 
settled down again. There was no more talk 
of elopement. Somehow, he felt no desire to 
suggest immediate marriage. He would not 
admit that he had been frightened; he preferred 
to believe that he had merely decided to follow 
the wiser course. Yet he harbored a nebulous, 
unreasoned resentment toward Leonora. She 
was lovable; she was to be deeply pitied; but, 
after all, it was she who tempered their love 
with caution. Whenever he found it neces¬ 
sary to drive his attention consciously to his 
reading, he discovered it was this resentment 
which he must put from his thoughts. It 






92 COMMENCEMENT 

lurked constantly in his mind, waiting to de¬ 
stroy whatever tranquillity he might enjoy. 

This effort to disprove Mr. Praihs philoso¬ 
phy lasted a full week. The following Sunday 
evening, after several unsatisfactory hours with 
Leonora, Gregory returned home and settled 
himself in the wide, comfortable chair in his 
room. Finally, after a series of profound 
sighs, he half-heartedly picked up the volume 
he was reading and opened it. Some time later 
he had succeeded in pinning his attention upon 
the theme of the book. 

Gregory started at the abrupt sound of cau¬ 
tious rapping on his door. The rapping was 
repeated. Slowly and noiselessly the door 
opened. 

“Oh, Greg, is it all rights May I come inV 
Catherine peered into the room. 

“Yes, come on in. I couldn’t imagine who 
it was. What’s upT’ 

Without replying, Catherine closed the door 
softly behind her, walked across the room, and 
settled herself upon the bed. Then, one after 
the other, she kicked her yellow, high-heeled 
bedroom slippers off on to the floor. She was 
wearing a black silk kimono, cut loose like a 
coat, with long, wide sleeves. Her mass of 
yellow hair seemed more kinky and tangled 
than ever. Gregory watched her appraisingly. 
It was strange that a girl who looked like 
Catherine should be hard and worldly. 


COMMENCEMENT 


93 

‘‘Well, have I changed since the last time 
you saw me?” 

Gregory laughed. “No, I guess not.” 

“Throw me a cigarette and a match, will 
you?” 

Gregory tossed her the required articles and 
watched her while she lit her cigarette. He 
wondered vaguely what she was really like^ 
There were many people with whom he was 
better acquainted than he was with his sister. 
In a way she had always repelled him. When 
they were together he instinctively became re¬ 
served. As long as he could remember, he had 
dreaded to have Catherine laugh at him, but 
she had laughed frequently. She had laughed 
when he announced that he was engaged. He 
wondered what sort of man it would be who 
would fall in love with Catherine. And what 
could she want now? 

“Summon up all your brotherly love, Greg. 
You’re going to need it—or rather I am.” She 
exhaled a cloud of thin, blue smoke and drew 
her legs farther up under her. 

“What’s it all about?” 

“I want to borrow some of your savings. I 
didn’t graduate from anything, so I didn’t get 
a check.” She laughed nervously. 

“You get more than I do from father.” 

“Oh yes, I know, but never all in a lump like 
that. And I couldn’t save, or I didn’t think 
there was any need to till—till now. I’ll pay it 


COMMENCEMENT 


94 

back, all right. You needn’t worry about that. 
I couldn’t ask father for it, though. It would 
make him ask too many questions.” 

“Sounds as if you’d been rolling dice or 
something.” 

“Not dice—^but something.” She laughed 
nervously again, almost mirthlessly. The 
laugh passed quickly. She leaned forward. 
“I need five hundred, Greg, and I need it right 
away—to-morrow.” 

“Five hundred what—dollars?” 

“Yes.” 

Gregory hesitated. There seemed to be 
something almost furtive in Catherine’s wide 
blue eyes. Their hardness was in some strange 
way softened. 

“This is no joke, Greg. I need it badly. 
I’ve got to get it somewhere. I’ll pay it back.” 

“All right,” he said in some bewilderment. 
“I can lend you more if you want.” 

“No. Thanks. Five hundred is all I need. 
I— That will do. Thank you very much.” 
She drew back and breathed deeply. At the 
same time her eyelids were lowered to obscure 
the weakness they had inadvertently disclosed. 
“You’ll get it for me to-morrow, won’t you?” 
“If you want. I’ll go to the bank at noon.” 
“I’ll meet you there.” 

A moment’s awkward silence ensued. Cath¬ 
erine puffed fitfully at her cigarette. From 
time to time she tightened the muscles of her 


COMMENCEMENT 95 

jaw as if hardening herself against an incipi¬ 
ent emotion. 

‘‘Of course,” she said, finally, ‘"you’ll keep 
this to yourself. You won’t mention it to 
father or mother—or anyone.” 

“I won’t.” 

She sighed with affected weariness. “It’s 
a great life, isn’t it?” 

“I suppose so, if you like that sort of thing.” 

“You’re not becoming cynical, are you?” 

“How can anyone help it?” 

“Father isn’t, and you seem to be a chip off 
the old block.” 

Gregory grunted. 

“Quarreled with her or something?” 

“No.” He spoke without the anger he 
usually felt whenever his sister twitted him 
with his engagement. He seemed, for the first 
time, to know that Catherine really was his 
sister, and that however alien they might be, 
there was, after all, a certain close bond be¬ 
tween them. “I’m fed up with everything,” he 
said, stifling a vague sense of disloyalty to 
Leonora. 

“I don’t see why you should be, except that 
you’ve tied yourself up for life. Why don’t 
you break loose? Kick over while you’re still 
able?” 

“I’m not sure I want to. In fact, I don’t 
think I do. It’s not as simple as that. It’s 


96 COMMENCEMENT 

everything combined. There doesn’t seem 
to be any point to anything.” 

“You’re too much of a serious thinker. Make 
all the money you can and learn the art of 
spending it. There’s point enough to that.” 

“I don’t want to make a lot of money.” 

“You only think you don’t. If you found 
you could make it easily, I don t see you hesi¬ 
tating.” 

“No. But to spend all your life working 
for it seems silly.” 

“Well, what would you like to spend your 
life doing*? Nothing?” 

“No. I don’t know. That’s just it—I don’t 
know. I’ve sometimes thought of writing.” 

“Writers usually feel happier, I guess, when 
they receive checks than when they don’t.” 

“Yes, but that’s different. The money, then, 
isn’t an end; it’s only an indication that you’re 
getting somewhere.” 

“Getting where? Climbing, that’s all. 
You’re supposed to go up somewhere. It 
doesn’t seem to me to make much difference 
where, as long as you’re able to have a good 
time when you want to. Go and live in Green¬ 
wich Village, if that’s the sort of thing you 
like. Personally, I shouldn’t care for it. I 
like automobiles and expensive food, though 
they have things like that there now, too. 
Anyway, I like what you can get with money, 
and I’m not ashamed of it.” 


COMMENCEMENT 97 

‘‘It’s obvious you need a lot.” 

Catherine glanced sharply across at her 
brother, “Listen, Greg, have you any suspicion 
of why I want that money*?” 

“Debts of some sort, I suppose.” 

“To the pure,” she began, smiling disdain¬ 
fully. “Tve half a mind to tell you just why 
I do want it. You’d never get over it, though. 
Damn it, you’re inhumanly moral and high 
minded and complacent about it all—like a 
deacon walking through a red-light district.” 

“What do you mean? What makes you 
think I’m so pure?” Instinctively he defended 
the depravity which is such a necessary ingredi¬ 
ent to masculinity. Indeed, so deep was his 
resentment toward Catherine’s accusation that 
he forgot to wonder what it might be that he 
would never get over. 

“Oh, you’re no different from the rest. You 
may not be pure, but you’re afraid to see 
things. O Lord, how could I even have 
thought of telling you? Your dear, sheltered, 
sweet sister—the little flower. O God!” 

“What is it, Kate?” 

“Nothing, nothing. I’ll keep the little home 
circle comfy and complacent, but—oh, couldn’t 
I give it a jolt! Couldn’t I, though!” 

“What is the matter?” Gregory left his 
chair and came round the table toward his sis¬ 
ter. 


COMMENCEMENT 


98 

Her hands were clasped white and taut. She 
seemed to be trying to suppress an over¬ 
mastering desire to laugh, and yet her face 
was pale and drawn. 

‘‘What is itf insisted Gregory in a tremu¬ 
lous whisper. “You’re hysterical.” 

The spasm passed, and Catherine sat up 
calmly. “It’s all right, Greg,” she said, push¬ 
ing him aside. “Did I talk very loud^” 

“Rather.” 

“Listen.” She remained motionless, her 
hand resting upon his arm. “Keep quiet.” 
They remained for several seconds in alert sus¬ 
pense. “Did you hear anything?” 

“No. Did you?” 

“I thought I did. My imagination, I guess. 
Do you suppose I talked loud enough for the 
family to hear me?” 

“No. They’re probably sound asleep.” 

“Open the door quietly and see if there’s any¬ 
one in the hall, will you?” she whispered. 

Gregory crossed to the door, drew it swiftly 
open, and peered up and down the dark hall¬ 
way. “Nobody there,” he said, quietly turning 
back toward his sister and closing the door. He 
studied her curiously, and finally stepped to the 
bed and sat down beside her. 

She was leaning forward, her long, slim fore¬ 
arms rising straight above her knees. Her 
square chin was sunk in the palms of her hands. 
She stared dully at the corner of the table and 


COMMENCEMENT 99 

she gave no indication that she was aware of 
his presence. 

How white and frail she looked, wrapped 
loosely in the shiny black kimono. Why had 
she willfully hardened herself*? He had al¬ 
ways thought it natural with her, yet it was 
not. The process was not yet complete. To¬ 
night, in her eyes, in pertain gestures of her 
hands, he had caught glimpses of unsuspected 
softness. A shell, and what was hidden be¬ 
neath the shell? What was she covering? 
Couldn’t I give them a jolt! She wanted to. 
It was understandable, this will to jolt. Some 
difficulty—difficulty—the word was used in 
many senses. His sister in difficulty—in 
trouble. Sex! The word cut keenly through his 
mind. “Kitten,” his father called her. Kitten 
in difficulty. No, it was probably not that— 
surely not. 

“Listen, Kate, why not tell me what it is? 
I need a jolt, anyway.” He put his hand on 
her arm. He realized that his fingers were very 
cold and uncertain. “Tell me about it.” 

“All right.” She spoke calmly, measuredly. 
“I’m pregnant.” 

A jolt—a brusque jolt. No, he wanted to 
give jolts, not to receive them. It was a jolt. 
A fallen woman, a bad woman. But all this 
didn’t mean much. What about it, anyway? 
She had taken a chance and lost. The man had 


loo COMMENCEMENT 

probably sneaked off, crawled away. “Who 

was it*?” , 

‘What difference does that make*? You re 
not going to shoot him, or anything of that sort. 
It wasn’t any more his fault than mine. I can 
usually get away with a little petting, but^he 
fooled me. I wouldn’t marry him, anyway.” 
“But what are you going to do^” 

“What do you suppose I need the five hun¬ 
dred for^ A layette or something*?” She 
spoke in a colorless monotone and kept her gaze 
fixed upon the corner of the table. “They think- 
I’m going to spend a few days with Henrietta 
Ule. I’m really going to spend it with the 
doctor, here in New York.” 

Gregory walked across the room and perched 
himself upon the table. 

“Don’t fret about it, Greg,” she said, looking 
up at him. “The five hundred is all you can 
do. If Fd had the money, I’d never have told 
you. I didn’t intend to, anway. Nothing 
tragic about it. I’ll soon be home bright and 
smiling.” 

“Yes, but-•” 

“But what*?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. It seems a rotten thing 
to do, somehow.” 

“Can you think of a better^” 

“No. You don’t want to marry him, you 
sayT’ 

“Not under these circumstances. Fm not 



COMMENCEMENT loi 

going to whine to him. He doesn’t know any¬ 
thing about it.” 

“You ought to tell him, I think.” 

“And what then*?” 

Gregory said nothing. 

“And he’d probably offer to do the right 
thing, and we’d be unhappy the rest of our 
lives. Not for me. I know it hurts to think 
that little sister has been led astray, but she has 
been, and that’s that. There isn’t any reason 
for slaughter or lawsuits or marriages, or any¬ 
thing of that sort. It’s all wrong and there 
isn’t any right way out.” 

She stood up and yawned. “Well, I’m going 
to bed, Greg. I’ll meet you at the bank at one 
to-morrow.” She walked up to him and rested 
her hand upon his sleeve. “Don’t worry about 
it. I’ve learned more about you to-night than I 
ever knew before. You’re not as complacent as 
the rest. Don’t be a fool and go and get mar¬ 
ried now. You’ll have plenty of time later to 
find out what it’s like. Look at father. He 
can’t enjoy what he makes. He doesn’t know 
how.” 

“But he isn’t unhappy.” 

“You’d like his life, then?” 

“At least he isn’t discontented.” 

“Well, we can’t tell. He’s too well trained. 
Sometimes I think it would brighten up his life 
a bit if I should tell him about this. It would 
be something happening, something to think 


102 COMMENCEMENT 

about, anyway. His darling daughter, his- 

Impossible. Good night, Greg.” 

“If there’s anything else I can do, let me 
know.” 

“All right. We’ll have another talk when I 
come back. Thanks for not being too mascu¬ 
line and manly. I’d have made an awful scene 
if you’d tried any of these heroic poses.” She 
slipped silently out of the room. 

What about it^ What about it^ Ruined, 
violated, an unfortunate accident. Words dry 
of meaning—bleached, gray words. His emo¬ 
tions were vitiated, though they had never be¬ 
fore been experienced. After all, there was 
nothing to be done—nothing to be said. Why 
was it that he, too, wished his father knew, and 
his mother, also? Leonora would be superior; 
she would condemn, not so much morally as 
practically. It was bad business. She would 
think of the results, of future contingencies. 
Who could it have been? Catherine seemed so 
cold, so rigid. Perhaps Leonora too—no, that 
was absurd, too absurd; the incongruity was an¬ 
noying. Leonora’s abiding purity was an ideal, 
but a practical, hard-headed ideal. 

Leonora the fair, the unattainable, the beau¬ 
tiful. He walked across the room to her pic¬ 
ture. He picked it up and held it before his 
eyes. I do love you. I know I do. I always 
shall. Nothing else matters. Nothing. Blah- 
blah ! Damn that advertisement! 


COMMENCEMENT 103 

He put down the picture wearily and began 
undressing. 

The next noon, as Gregory neared the bank 
where he was to meet Catherine, he stopped 
suddenly and drove his hands into his pockets. 
He ought to have something to say to Cath¬ 
erine, some advice to offer her. It was not 
enough merely to present her with the money. 
There must be some other way out of her 
trouble. He turned and walked around the 
block. He was already late, but he must first 
think longer. The man ought to know. Cer¬ 
tainly he would do something. Why should 
this nasty bit of fact bring Catherine and him¬ 
self nearer than they had ever been before 
But that was beside the point now. He passed 
the bank again and continued around the block. 
Yes, the solution must come from the man, 
whoever he was. What sort of person could he 
be*? Gregory’s mind fastened upon romance. 
He visualized a moment of poetic passion. 
Yes, he must argue Catherine into some other 
course of action. To-day, perhaps, she would 
see the affair without last night’s hysterical 
cynicism. 

She was sitting facing the door. Her head 
was turned away from Gregory as he entered. 
The peak of a black hat, helmet-shaped, 
shielded her eyes. Her mouth was motionless 


COMMENCEMENT 


104 

and firm. Her hands rested naturally, without 
nervousness, in her lap. Gregory gripped hard 
at his decision. 

“Oh, hello, Greg! I was beginning to think 
you’d decided to economize.” 

“No.” He moistened his lips and sat down 
beside her. “Are you sure, Kate, that you-” 

“Oh, let’s not go over it again, Greg. 
Please.” 

“All right. Only-” 

“I’ve thought of nothing else for a week. 
There isn’t any other way out. This isn’t any 
time for morals. I’m a bad girl, so let me carry 
through the part without a lot of fireworks.” 

Gregory chewed his lip dubiously as he 
walked to the paying teller’s window. When 
he returned, Catherine smiled affectionately at 
him. “Thanks awfully,” she said, and stuffed 
the money into her bag. 

“Sure you don’t need more?” 

“Positive. If I skimp a bit on dress allow¬ 
ances for six months or so. I’ll be able to pay 
it back.” She stood up and walked with him 
to the door of the bank. 

“Oh, I wish there were some other way. I 
wish you didn’t have to go through with it.” 

“Much easier and more sensible than letting 
Nature take her course, Greg. Buck up. I 
don’t want you to faint or have hysterics here 
on Fifth Avenue. Poor Greg!” She squeezed 
his arm. “Anyone who could create anything 




COMMENCEMENT 


105 

like the blah-blah bird ought not to take things 
too seriously. And I was so afraid you would 
be a blah-blah bird when I told you about this. 
That taxi’s empty, isn’t it?” 

Gregory waved at the chauffeur and led 
Catherine to the curb. “Be sure to let me know 
if you want me for anything—if you need me 
in any way.” 

“Thanks. Good-by, Greg. I’m awfully 
scared.” Her hand was cold and trembled 
slightly as he took it. 

“Poor Kate!” He leaned impulsively to¬ 
ward her and kissed her cheek. 

“It ’ll be all over in a little while.” She 
spoke her destination to the chauffeur and 
stepped into the cab. “Good-by, Greg.” 

The taxicab lurched forward and rolled up 
the Avenue. 

After all, there was much to admire in Cath¬ 
erine. She took her medicine without a 
whimper. She, at least, lived up to her philos¬ 
ophy. There was something firm and solid 
about her. She did not compromise and drag 
meekly along. Leonora. Her purity, the pur¬ 
ity which tinged his love with worship, some¬ 
how seemed weak, merely negative. He 
checked his thoughts and lit a cigarette. No, 
he must not allow his ideals to crumble under 
Catherine’s facile synicism. He must build, 
not destroy. What had happened to this power 
to build which he had felt vigorous within him? 


io6 COMMENCEMENT 

He had become tense; his nerves were taut, as 
if something were about to happen. It was fear 
for Catherine, of course. Or was it fear of 
everything, of all that this ponderous, confused 
mass, the city, held^? Mrs. PraiFs cry for life 
had echoed an unforgettable dread. Poor 
Leonora! No wonder she could not dare leaps 
in the dark. It would be terrible to lose his 
job. His own dread would sink more heavily 
upon him. Such a calamity would mark the 
down path. If only he could rid himself of 
that strange fear that something was about to 
crash. There were no firm foundations. His 
thoughts heaved irresistibly. And when the 
crash came, there would be the blah-blah bird 
perched upon the ruins, grinning evilly. He 
must hurry back to work. 

Again and again during the long afternoon, 
Gregory started at the realization that he was 
staring vacantly out of the window. The Tro¬ 
jan Hotel, which he was trying to eulogize, re¬ 
mained in his mind a mere rectangular struc¬ 
ture of steel and concrete. His imagination 
refused to make more of it. Mr. Blooker might 
come out of his office at any moment and find 
Gregory gazing at a particularly uninspiring 
water tank, but Gregory lacked the volition to 
force himself to his work. He looked at his 
watch, and an expression of anxiety crossed his 
face. If only he could telephone and find out 
how Catherine was. He sharpened his pencil 


COMMENCEMENT 


107 


carefully, drew a picture of the Trojan Hotel 
and, almost unconsciously, placed the blah-blah 
bird above it. He tore the paper into small 
pieces and dropped them into the waste-paper 
basket. The telephone on his desk tinkled 
fretfully. 

‘Hello!’’ 

“Hello! Is this Mr. Thrumm?’ 

“Yes.” 

“This is J. Ambrose Hoosis speaking. I want 
you to do some advertising for me for the 
Never-Rattle False Teeth.” 

“Hello, Jimmy!” 

“How’s business, Greg?” 

“Oh, all right! What are you doing now?” 

“Looking over prospective employers. What 
time do you finish closing the last window, 
Greg?” 

“About five.” 

“All right, I’ll come up then and look things 
over, if you haven’t anything else to do.” 

Gregory felt a certain exhilaration at the 
prospect of seeing Jimmy again. It would be 
pleasant to laugh loudly and whole-heartedly. 
Upon reflection, it occurred to him that he had 
not done much laughing since he had left col¬ 
lege. 

At five o’clock Gregory went into the wash¬ 
room. When he returned a few minutes later, 
the office was practically empty. He stepped 
into the reception room to see whether Jimmy 


io8 


COMMENCEMENT 


had arrived, but the room was deserted. He 
wandered back to his desk and sat down. 

‘'Aren’t you going home to-night*?” 

It was a man named Spelfer who had spoken, 
one of the cleverest writers of advertisements 
in the office. Spelfer walked across the room 
and perched himself on Gregory’s desk. “This 
is a hell of a hole, ain’t it?” 

“Oh, I don’t think it’s so bad.” As Gregory 
observed Spelfer’s pale-yellow hair and mus¬ 
tache and his almost total lack of eyebrows, he 
did not wonder that the office force referred to 
Spelfer as “the vapid blond.” 

“Wait till you’ve been here every day, every 
week, except two a year, for ten years.” 
Spelfer lit a cigarette and inhaled apprecia¬ 
tively of the smoke. “Listen, Thrumm, you 
don’t seem to spend as much time gassing 
around the office as most of these birds do. 
I’m going to tell you something. I’ve got good 
news and I’ve got to tell somebody now and 
again, just to ease my mind. I wouldn’t tell 
anybody else here. I like to have ’em think I’m 
a damned fool. It’s a compliment.” He spoke 
in a loud, rasping voice and gesticulated awk¬ 
wardly but without affectation. “I’m clearing 
out of this place Saturday. The boss is the 
only one who knows, and I made him promise to 
keep quiet.” He flicked the ash from his cigar¬ 
ette and leaned close to Gregory. “Did you 
ever read The Love of Daniel Drake?*^ 


COMMENCEMENT 109 

“No. Fve heard of it, but I never read it. 
Is it good?’ 

“Good? Fifty thousand copies sold to 
date.” 

-Yes, but- 

“But what?” 

“Why-” 

“Listen, my friend, you go out and buy a 
copy of that book and put it in your library. 
Get a copy of The Straws of the Nest^ too. 
Do you know who the author is?” 

“I think it’s Herbert something—Herbert 
Dane.” 

“Well”—Spelfer hunched his coat higher 
on his thin shoulders—“well, that’s me.” 

“You are Herbert Dane?” 

“Dramatic moment that. I’ll have to make 
use of it sometime.” He jumped from the 
desk, gazed searchingly into Gregory’s sur¬ 
prised face, and then abruptly drew back, lift¬ 
ing his hands, palms outward, to the height of 
his shoulders. “ 'You are Herbert Dane?’ ” he 
quoted in a strained voice. “Good stuff, that.” 
He reseated himself upon the desk. “Yes, 
that’s me. That’s why I’m leaving Saturday. 
This old place supported me till I got going. 
It’s been like a mother to me, but now I’m going 
to bring sorrow to her gray hairs. I’m going 
out into the world and lead a riotous life— 
liquor, women, and jazz. Do as I told you, my 
friend. Buy those two books, bring ’em back 




no 


COMMENCEMENT 


to the office, and let me autograph ’em for 
you. Some day you’ll be able to sell ’em for 
a lot of money. They’re good books—^very 
moral, with spicy bits here and there to bring 
the moral home. They’ll help lots of people to 
lead better lives, and they’ll help me to lead a 
more dissipated one, which is exactly what I 
want.” 

“I’ll have to read them,” said Gregory 
lamely, trying to remember just what he had 
said when Spelfer had first mentioned the titles 
of the books. 

“You will. I’ve fooled everyone. This of¬ 
fice, all my friends, my wife—everybody 
thought I was just a stupid egg. My wife’s 
going to chew off all her finger nails when she 
hears—when she has to admit that she was all 
wrong and I was right. Oh, it’s a wonderful 
feeling—the thrill of a lifetime! She threw 
me over for something better, and now I’ve 
turned out to be better than what she left me 
for.” 

Gregory felt uncomfortable during the im¬ 
pressive silence which ensued. “Maybe she’ll 
come back,” he said, finally. 

“Well, I won’t be there if she does. I’ve 
worked hard for this, and I’m going to enjoy it 
alone. Nobody helped me. I used to write 
nights and then come down here at eight and 
type my stuff on one of the office machines. It 
took me eight years to get anything published. 


COMMENCEMENT 


111 


Now Tm going to be a regular author—temper¬ 
ament, women, and all that stuff.” He sur¬ 
veyed the office, now silent and empty. “Some 
day ril write a book about this place and these 
people, ril show ’em up. Fll bite the hand 
that’s fed me. Fatherly old Blocker who smiles 
and thinks you’re all right, if you think him 
and his ideas are the only sound things in the 
world—and Klint with hi^ loud-mouthed fawn¬ 
ing—and Miss Rossby, she’ll be the heroine. 
She needs a husband, and we’ll give her one. 
Trouble is-” 

The door opened, and Jimmy stepped into 
the room. 

“Hello, Greg! I hope I’m not interrupting 
a directors’ meeting, or anything like that.” 

Gregory introduced Jimmy to Spelfer. 
“You look prosperous, Jimmy.” He surveyed 
Jimmy’s carefully creased suit, his malacca 
walking stick, and his gray spats. “You must 
have money to be able to get away with that.” 

“No money, no job.” Jimmy grinned. “Ab¬ 
solutely no means of support. I’ve been look¬ 
ing for work all day. I must have told a dozen 
different captains of industry that I was intelli¬ 
gent and willing and not afraid of light work, 
but somehow I failed to score. I’ll tell you— 
if old Bloker or Blooker, or whatever his name 
is, hasn’t gone yet, suppose you take me in and 
introduce me to him. Perhaps I could write 



112 COMMENCEMENT 

advertisements, or whatever it is he needs some 
one to do.” 

“He doesn’t approve of spats.” 

“You didn’t try wearing them, did you?” 

“No, but I can tell by looking at him.” 

“You’re afraid of your boss, Greg, and that’s 
what I refuse to be of any boss. 'Give me 
liberty or give me death.’ Old Patrick Henry 
would have worn spats under the circumstances. 
I’m sure. I refuse to be cowed.” 

“You’ll come to it,” said Spelfer, smiling 
crookedly. 

“And if any more financial wizards look 
supercilious when I interview them. I’ll buy a 
monocle. Oh, I may come down to dressing 
like a young man with no taste and lots of ambi¬ 
tion some day, but I’m going to stick it out yet 
awhile.” 

“What does your father say?” asked 
Gregory. 

“Not much, but he prays a good deal, I ex¬ 
pect. Take away the spats from my boy, or 
something of the sort.” 

“Say,” broke in Spelfer, “what are you two 
fellows doing to-night? Have you got some¬ 
thing arranged?” 

“Why, no!” Gregory spoke hesitatingly and 
looked at Jimmy. 

“Do I smell a party?” asked Jimmy. 

“Come on.” Spelfer jumped down from his 
seat on the desk. “Let’s go and eat together, 


COMMENCEMENT 113 

and then you come up to my place. We’ll have 
a little party—real liquor and everything.” He 
winked and crossed the room to get his hat. 

“Queer duck,” whispered Jimmy. “Looks 
like a codfish. I never saw one, except in a box, 
but that’s what a codfish ought to look like.” 

Spelfer led them across the city to an obscure 
Italian restaurant. “This party,” as he fre¬ 
quently reiterated, was his. He managed 
everything. He ordered the food and even sug¬ 
gested to Gregory and Jimmy the best manner 
of eating it. “You don’t know how to eat this 
stuff,” he observed, winding spaghetti on his 
fork. “Look at that Wop over there.” Gregory 
and Jimmy watched the man indicated and saw 
that his procedure was similar to Spelfer’s, ex¬ 
cept that the Italian dispensed with the aid of 
bread to boost the food into his mouth, and that 
his labial contortions were somewhat com¬ 
plicated by an overhanging mustache. Spel¬ 
fer’s was clipped short. 

“I guess I’ll continue the way I’ve been do¬ 
ing,” observed Jimmy, with a sigh. “It would 
take months of practice and too many vests sent 
to the cleaners to develop a technique like 
that.” 

“You’re too damn well brought up. Don’t 
seem quite right to let your victuals hang out 
of your mouth, does it?” Spelfer laughed 
gratingly, and then, sobering suddenly, went on 
to tell Jimmy of Herbert Dane and his sue- 


COMMENCEMENT 


114 

cess as a novelist. As when telling the story to 
Gregory, he used his success as an introduction 
to his marital troubles. ‘‘Fve done nothing but 
work like a dog. Hereafter Fm going to do a 
little nose-thumbing. God! Wait till my wife 
hears of this. Oh, baby!” 

‘1 gather you aren’t much in love with her,’’ 
said Jimmy. 

Spelfer chewed thoughtfully at his mustache. 
“Maybe if I wasn’t I wouldn’t feel this way. 
Yes, I probably am in love with her, and that’s 
the reason I hate hell out of her. Fll make her 
regret she left me, but I won’t take her back— 
I won’t give her a nickel. She had no faith in 
me. She raised hell because I worked like a 
dog every night and every spare minute I got.” 
Spelfer’s little eyes were sharp and brilliant. 
His hand swept before him in a terse gesture. 
“She used to laugh at me and tell her cackling 
friends I was a nut. One day I told her just 
what I thought of her. She laughed at me, and 
I went mad and smashed her in the face.” He 
smiled crookedly. “You look shocked, 
Thrumm. The idea of hitting a woman, eh? 
Well, I hit her, all right, and I hit her hard be¬ 
tween the eyes. I drew blood and lots of it.” 
His smile remained as he watched Gregory. 
“You wait till you’re married. You’ll prob¬ 
ably come to it.” 

“All this doesn’t sound much like The Love 
of Daniel Drakef^ observed Jimmy. “You 


COMMENCEMENT 115 

don’t mean to tell me that after Mary had 
nursed Dan through the valley of the shadow, 
he turned on her and beat her up.” 

“Probably. After they were married she 
most likely rubbed it in a good deal about her 
having taught him to read and clean his nails 
and not pick his nose in public.” He turned to 
Gregory. “Don’t look so gloomy, Thrumm. 
This meal’s getting too serious, anyway. You 
aren’t married or going to be, are you?” 

“Yes.” Gregory realized that Jimmy was 
watching him. “I’m engaged.” He wished 
that Jimmy were away and that Spelfer would 
not grin in that insolent manner. 

“Oh, well, cheer up. Something may hap¬ 
pen yet.” Spelfer laughed quietly. 

“I don’t want anything to happen.” 

“Don’t get mad about it, Thrumm.” Spelfer 
turned to Jimmy and abruptly changed the 
topic of conversation. 

Gregory barely spoke during the rest of the 
meal. He wondered whether it would be pos¬ 
sible to excuse himself after dinner. He did 
not want to go to Spelfer’s home. He had an 
engagement with Leonora, anyway. He had 
accepted Spelfer’s invitation impulsively, in 
his desire to laugh with Jimmy, thinking 
vaguely that he would telephone some excuse 
to Leonora. It seemed almost impossible now, 
that he could have descended to thinking up 
excuses to get away from her. Spelfer’s 


ii6 


COMMENCEMENT 


raucous vulgarity, which before had appeared 
merely amusing, now seemed unclean, repul¬ 
sive. 

They rose and threaded their way through 
the tables to the door. A momentary panic pos¬ 
sessed Gregory. He must speak soon or not at 
all. . 

“Oh, Spelfer, Tm sorry. I forgot. I had 
another engagement for to-night and I don’t 
see how I can break it.” He wished he could 
bring himself to look at Spelfer and Jimmy. 

“Oh, come on, Thrumm. Telephone or do 
something.” 

Gregory noticed that Jimmy remained silent. 
Jimmy, he realized, knew the reason for this 
change. “I really can’t. I’m awfully sorry. 
I-” 

“Listen, you go ahead and keep your other 
engagement, whatever it is, and then come 
around to my place later.” He fished in his 
pocket and brought forth a card. “Here, got a 
pencil? I’ll give you my address.” 

“I’ll probably be too late.” 

“Any time before midnight ’ll be all right. 
There. It’s the top floor. We’ll expect you.” 

“I’ll try, but don’t expect me. I’m sorry, 

but-” He turned to Jimmy. “Call me up 

again some day, Jimmy, will you?” 

“Yes, I’ll call you up sometime to-morrow, 
Greg.” 

There was unexpected sympathy and under- 




COMMENCEMENT 


117 

standing in Jimmy’s voice, and Gregory looked 
his appreciation. 

Gregory walked down a long street between 
two high stone walls. The tiny oblong of sky 
ahead looked like the doorway to a vast 
furnace. Gorgeous streaks of crimson and 
orange shot high into the sky above the walls. 
He fancied that the street was being sucked 
into a consuming fire. In the blaze of light the 
houses in the distance seemed warped and dis¬ 
torted by dazzling heat. Perhaps the world 
was whirling into the searing tail of some 
comet, to be left in an instant, bare and charred 
and dead. How important the shriveled world 
would be with no one to think it so! A slight, 
unnoticeable accident would have happened to 
the universe. He stopped and stared at the 
dying flame. Already the tops of the houses 
were becoming dun and ugly. He started im¬ 
patiently on. Whence had come this feeling of 
unaccountable dread that had seized upon him? 
The rhythm of living had been upset, and yet 
nothing had happened to him, personally. 
Everything had come through his sympathies. 

As Gregory sat and talked with Leonora, he 
gradually became aware of a feeling of resent¬ 
ment toward her. His refusal to go with 
Jimmy and Spelfer had not brought its reward. 
Of course Leonora could not know of that. He 


COMMENCEMENT 


118 

started to tell her, but he did not. He would 
not plead for her affection. Even if he had 
given up nothing for her, her love could not 
be very deep if she could sit there calmly and 
talk of nothing more intimate than a letter she 
had that day received from her brother. He 
found himself keyed to startling events, and 
the commonplace annoyed him. When he had 
refused to go with Spelfer and Jimmy, he had 
pictured himself as resisting the ignoble by 
sheer strength of will. He had felt proud of 
his firmness. Now, he fancied himself as a 
good little boy refusing to play with the bad 
little boys. 

He crossed the room and sat on the arm of 
Leonora’s chair. He bent over and kissed her 
forcefully. When he freed her lips, she gave 
him a quick, affectionate smile and patted the 
back of his hand. “Let me see? What was I 

saying? Oh yes. John’s letters are really-’’ 

Gregory returned to his chair. 

“Is there anything the matter, Gregory? 
You look angry.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Is there anything?” 

“No. I’m awfully sorry, Leonora, but I 
won’t be able to stay late to-night. A man at 
the office asked me to come around to see him, 
and I promised I would.” Gregory’s lips settled 
firmly together. He saw the glance of disap¬ 
pointment in Leonora’s eyes. 



COMMENCEMENT 


119 

“I suppose after we’re married the excuse 
will be that you’re busy at the office,” she re¬ 
plied, half playfully. 

“Do youHis eyelids drooped. 

“Don’t get angry so easily, Gregory. I was 
only fooling. If I didn’t think I could trust 
you, I shouldn’t marry you.” 

“As a matter of fact, how can you be sure 
that you can trust me? You don’t know any¬ 
thing about me—really, except what I’ve told 
you. You don’t know what I do when I’m not 
with you.” 

“What’s the purpose of all this, Gregory? 
You seem to resent my trusting you. I won’t, 
if you don’t want me to.” 

“Well, I think I’ll go now.” He rose. 
“Good night.” 

“Good night, Gregory.” She stood watch¬ 
ing him, her arms hanging at her sides. When 
he turned toward the door, she made no move, 
but, just as he stepped into the hallway, she 
spoke. “Listen, Gregory.” 

He stopped and faced her. 

“If I asked you to stay with me this evening, 
would you do it?” 

He studied her eyes. “If you really wanted 
me to, yes.” 

“I just wondered. I’m not going to ask you 
to.” 

Once more Gregory moved toward the door, 
and again he turned back to Leonora. “If I 


120 COMMENCEMENT 

asked you to marry me to-morrow, would you 
do it?’ 

“That’s not the same.” 

He advanced toward her, but Leonora 
averted her head. “No, no, Gregory! You 
mustn’t. You can’t sweep me off my feet 
again.” 

He gazed hungrily at the whiteness of her 
throat. “I don’t want to go, dear.” 

“Don’t be silly. You’ll see me to-morrow 
night.” 

Spelfer’s apartment occupied the top floor 
of what had once been a private house. The 
building itself had, by some strange freak of 
chance, been ignored when the rest of the houses 
on the street had been demolished. Its frail, 
brownstone front was tightly wedged in be¬ 
tween two ten-story concrete structures. 

Something about upper and nether mill¬ 
stones passed through Gregory’s mind as he 
surveyed the house from the opposite side of 
the street. He observed lights in the windows 
of the top story, but he could see no one within. 
He felt suddenly lonesome, and he ran quickly 
across the street and up the steps. He fumbled 
in the darkness for the bell button, found it, 
and pressed it sharply. A succession of faint 
clicks released the door latch. As Gregory 
pushed the door open, he stopped rigid upon the 


COMMENCEMENT 


121 


The vibrations of a woman’s voice sounded 
through the darkness of the hall. She was half 
singing, half talking, in a hoarse, blatant tone, 
and yet, despite its harshness, it expressed 
frank, sophisticated sensuousness. 

“ . . . an' through my mind theak drifts a minah note, 
A moanin' tune. 

From a loony, loony night in June, 

A weepin', creepin', heatin', neat an' sweet an' fleetin' 
Jazz-time melody'' 

A door somewhere above opened. 

“That you, Thrumm^” 

There was still time to go. Leonora would 
forgive anything but women. The red house 
didn’t fit in with this sort of thing. But 
Leonora would laugh at that. She had said, 
“Don’t be silly.” Here was something in life 
that would shortly be closed to him. Here was 
something tangible—experience, gaiety. The 
voice still ringing in his ears—sensuous, 
venereal. 

“Who’s down there, anyway^” 

“I’m coming. It’s so dark—I can hardly 
see. 

Gregory walked cautiously up the stairs and 
met Spelfer at the landing. “Don’t you ever 
have any lights in this house*?” 

“No. You see, the first two floors are offices, 
and there’s no one but myself in the house at 


122 


COMMENCEMENT 


night—^no one to tell me to cut out the racket 
when I give parties/’ 

Gregory was escorted into a bright, though 
rather smoky, room. 

‘‘Hello, Greg!” Jimmy shook hands ef¬ 
fusively and patted Gregory’s shoulder. 
“Thought you’d decided not to yield to tempta¬ 
tion.” 

Gregory decided that Spelfer’s boast of a 
plentiful stock of liquor was well founded. 

“Thrumm, I want you to meet our hostess for 
the evening. Coirie here, Jane.” Gregory took 
the flabby hand of an ample, plump body sur¬ 
mounted by a mass of frizzy, sulphur-colored 
hair. Her verdant dress was expansive, but 
gave, nevertheless, the suggestion of mighty 
rolls of flesh beneath. 

“Welcome to our city,” she squeaked. She 
giggled slightly and turned away. 

“And this is Sue. Sounds like the way they 
introduce the chorus in a revue, don’t it? 
And this is Chastity.” 

“Hello,” drawled Sue. Her shoulder bones 
made white marks upon her dark skin. “When 
you’ve had as much liquor as he has”—she in¬ 
dicated Spelfer—“you’ll look more at home.” 

Spelfer pushed Gregory before him toward 
the piano in the far corner of the room. “And 
over here is the hard guy of the party. Her 
name is Josephine, I’ve heard, but they call her 
Jo.” 


COMMENCEMENT 123 

‘‘What makes you think Tm going to let this 
guy call me Jo?” 

Gregory smiled, looked serious, and smiled 
again. This was the woman who had been sing¬ 
ing. Even now, when she was speaking low, 
her voice was» blatant, provocative. Her tall, 
rangy body seemed, at the same time, ungainly 
and sinuous. Her blond hair was drawn tightly 
back from her face and gave the appearance of 
having been oiled and polished. As she spoke, 
she raised her eyelids slightly and revealed 
small, greenish-blue irises; then the lidfe 
drooped again, and the color became inde¬ 
terminate. 

“Hello, Jo-jo!” Even as he spoke, he 
wondered at his own temerity. 

“You’re a fresh guy.” She turned her eyes 
upon Spelfer. “He looks like a good little boy, 
too.” 

Spelfer looked at Gregory and laughed. 

“Well,” asked Gregory, trying to appear 
worldly, “what are you going to do about it?” 

She grinned. “If you’re like this now, hell 
won’t hold you when you’re full of liquor.” 

“Take him over and give him a drink, Jo.” 
Spelfer turned away. 

Gregory followed Jo across the room to a 
sky-blue table. He noticed then, for the first 
time, that practically all the woodwork and 
furniture in the room was sky-blue. But he 
was not interested in the room. He watched 


COMMENCEMENT 


124 

Jo’s square, stubby hand as she grasped the 
neck of the bottle. 

“Well, what’s it going to be?” 

“That ’ll do—^what you’ve got there.” 

She dumped a handful of cracked ice into a 
glass, added a generous amount of Scotch, and 
filled up the glass with soda. “Drink that, 
dearie. It ’ll put hair on your chest.” 

“Is that what it does to you?” 

“Next Tuesday night I’m free.” She 
perched herself on the edge of the table, and 
Gregory got up heside her. “Don’t look so 
solemn, brother. You’re among friends. We 
won’t give you away. My Gawd! What you 
done with all that liquor I gave you?” 

“Drank it. What do you suppose?” 

“Here”— she reached for the bottle—“take 
this. If you drink it that fast, it ain’t worth 
the trouble pourin’ it.” 

Gregory poured out another drink. “You 
were singing when I came up, weren’t you?” 

“Yes, I done it. What about it?” 

“Sing again, won’t you?” 

“Sure. I got just the song for you, kid.” She 
looked across at Jimmy, who was trying to 
make Sue smoke a cigarette by holding it to her 
nostril. “Say!” Jo’s voice filled the room, 
and everyone turned toward her. “You want 
to play a little music while I sing this guy a 
ballad?” 

“Come on.” Jimmy vaulted the piano bench 


COMMENCEMENT 


125 


and bumped upon the bass keys. He sat im¬ 
provising while he waited for Jo. The smoke 
from the cigarette hanging upon his nether lip 
floated up into his eyes so that he squinted and 
contorted his face grotesquely. As Jo came up 
beside him, he jostled her arm with his elbow. 
‘‘What’ll we give him, kid?” 

“Know this one ?” She hummed a few bars. 
“Shoot!” 

As Jo sang the verse of the song, she leaned 
lazily against the piano and gazed about the 
room. When she came to the chorus, she 
hitched the strap of her black dress up over her 
shoulder and turned toward Gregory. She did 
not remove her eyes from his until she had 
finished. 

“/ make *em wise and cautious. 

When they're young. 

An their nerves is strung. 

An they're fee tin anxious 
For a little lovin' — well, 

I gives it to 'em. Them that fell 
For me knows how to kiss and to hug. 

In my arms I keep 'em snug like a bug in a rug, 
They's somethin' 'bout me that they carUt forget. 
They may go way; 

The little mice may play. 

But believe me those guys 

Is gonna be doggone cautious and wise'' 

She winked at Gregory and sauntered across 
the room to the table. “Pour me out a drink.” 


126 COMMENCEMENT 

‘‘Your singing’s got more kick in it than this 
stuff.” 

“Like it?’ 

“Very much.” 

She finished off her glass and lit a cigarette. 
“What’s the idea of standin’ up here, anyway? 
The table won’t fall down if you don’t lean 
against it.” 

“Wait a minute till I have another drink.” 
Gregory poured out a third liberal portion of 
whisky and swallowed it quickly. Then he 
joined Jo on a large blue settee in the corner of 
the room. 

“You seem to be tryin’ to get liquored up 
quick. You don’t look to me like you could 
hold much.” 

“Oh, I can hold it all right!” He knew he 
was lying, but he resented her suggestion that 
he was an inexperienced youth. Already he 
felt light and irresponsible. “Where’s 
Spelfer?” he demanded, looking about the 
room. “And the other girl?—Jane, I think hep 
name was.” He looked around at Jo. She was 
smiling enigmatically at him. He blushed and 
turned away. 

“They’re out making fudge for the party,” 
she said. 

“Hello, Greg!” Jimmy was sitting in a large 
armchair across the room. The thin girl. Sue, 
was wedged in beside him and was playing with 
his necktie. 


COMMENCEMENT 


127 


‘‘Hello, Jimmy!” 

“Nice little party, this. You got here late. 
We—we sort of got ahead of you. How do 
you like my girl?” 

“Nice girl. She looks uncomfortable.” 

“Well, Jo there looks as though she had 
plenty of room, anyway.” Jimmy roared with 
laughter. 

For an instant Jimmy’s taunt cleared 
Gregory’s increasingly vague thoughts. He 
shot a look of unveiled dislike at Jimmy’s wide, 
mocking eyes; then he turned away. He should 
never have come. He wasn’t at home in all 
this. Made a fool of himself by coming. Why 
hadn’t Jo gone on singing? Low girl—low 
party—feeling low. Jimmy always too fresh. 
Stupid people always fresh. His anger sub¬ 
sided and disappeared in a vast chasm of 
gloom. “Guess I’ll have another drink.” 

He started to rise, but was withheld by a 
hand grasping his arm. “Three is enough for 
you, buddy. You’re new at the game.” 

“I’m not new at it. I haven’t had any lately, 
but I used to drink a lot. Three isn’t any¬ 
thing.” Nevertheless, he made no attempt to 
go for another. “You seem to think I’m a— 
I’m a baby.” He turned and looked at her. 
“What’s the joke? Haven’t I got a necktie on, 
or something?” 

“You may not be wise, kid, but you’re awful 
cautious. Somebody’s tamed you good and 


128 


COMMENCEMENT 


proper. Some gal gave you a crack in the jaw, 
I expect, for bein’ too fresh.” 

“No one ever had a chance—^just because I 
am cautious. It’s awfully hot in here. Let’s 
go over by the window.” 

Gregory thrust his head far out of the win¬ 
dow and inhaled deeply a half dozen times. 

“Feel better now, kid^?” 

Gregory did not answer. Taking another 
deep breath, he turned awkwardly toward Jo 
and thrust his arm about her. Her body 
yielded to his embrace, and she threw back her 
head, oEering her lips to be kissed. There was 
a suggestion in the matter-of-factness of her 
manner which swept away his diffidence. 

“Not so bad for a beginner,” she said, freeing 
her lips. 

“Let’s sit down. Here, I’ll drag the sofa 
up.” With impatient haste he wheeled the long 
sofa across the room and up to the window. 

“Switch off the light for me, will you, 
Greg?” Jimmy’s voice sounded listless and 
faint. 

As Gregory crossed to the switch, he caught 
a glimpse of Jimmy’s flushed cheek against a 
dark shoulder. Spelfer, he noticed, had not 
yet returned. He felt his way uncertainly back 
through the darkness to the sofa. He bumped 
his hip against a table. There followed a 
tinkling of glass and a high pitched crash. 

“A bit uncertain yet, I see.” 


COMMENCEMENT 


129 

“Not at all uncertain—couldn’t see in the 
dark, that’s all. Where do you get this idea 
I’m drunk, anyway?” He sat beside her on 
the sofa. 

“Oh, you’re drunk, all right, or you wouldn’t 
be so fresh.” 

For a moment Gregory sat motionless, gazing 
at the dull wall of houses across the street. Her 
own fault. If she’d been willing to take a 
chance—to find that red house—this never 
would have happened. Wouldn’t have got 
drunk. She the cautious one. Can’t be cau¬ 
tious all your life. Got to have some fun. 
Don’t care what happens, anyway. Might 
even tell her. Thinks I’m too tame. Wonder 
what Jimmy thinks. Too drunk. To-morrow 
he’ll think. Damn Jimmy! Blah-blah. 
“Youth grows pale.” Wonder whether old 
Frail ever . . . 

“Why so thoughtful, kid?” 

Gregory turned swiftly and drew her into his 
arms. Her gross voice drove through his 
thoughts, scattering them in confusion. She 
knew him better than Leonora ever could. Her 
voice, the sway of her heavy shoulders, her long 
narrow eyes, her wide mouth—these expressed 
a sympathy that was strange and fascinating. 

Gregory approximated an absence of 
thought. 


COMMENCEMENT 


130 

The outer door to the Thrumm apartment 
opened softly, but with a slight rattling of the 
latch. Mr. Thrumm sat up in bed, picked up a 
pocket flashlight from the table beside his pil¬ 
low, and looked at his watch. Twenty minutes 
to four. He dropped back into bed and stared 
up at the ceiling. 

‘‘Rupert, are you awake 

“Yes,’' he answered, softly. 

“Was that Gregory, do you suppose?’’ 

“Guess so.” 

“It must be late.” 

Mr. Thrumm made no reply. 

“What time is it?” 

“Twenty minutes to four.” 

“Rupert, where can Gregory have been?” 

“That’s what I’ve been wondering.” 

“Maybe you’d better go in and talk to him.” 

“No, I’ve done all I can for him. It’s too 
late to interfere now, at his age.” 

“He’s seemed sort of moody lately. I 
wonder what it is.” 

Mr. Thrumm sighed. “Oh, I guess it ’ll 
work out all right. He’s always seemed level¬ 
headed enough. I’m more worried about 
Catherine than I am about Gregory.” 

“Oh, I don’t know what will ever become of 
Catherine. The morning she went away I tried 
to reason with her, and she got almost hys¬ 
terical.” 

“I’ll have to talk to Catherine when she gets 


COMMENCEMENT 


131 

back. It’s time I put my foot down. I don’t 
like the people she goes with. The men that 

come to see her are-And yet, if we say too 

much, it may be worse.” 

‘‘Catherine won’t even listen to me. She— 
she’s like a stranger, and so is Gregory, for that 
matter.” 

“They don’t seem to get along very well to¬ 
gether, either.” 

“No, I can’t understand it. They’re always 
fighting.” 

“I can’t understand why Gregory should 
have been so late. He couldn’t have been with 
Leonora till this hour.” 

“Oh dear!” Mrs. Thrumm sighed and moved 
restlessly in her bed. “I wish I knew what to 
do.” 

“Oh, well, it won’t do any good to worry 
about it. Let’s try to get back to sleep.” 

“There won’t be any more sleep for me to¬ 
night.” 

For some moments the silence in the room 
was broken only by intermittent creaks and 
rustles from the two beds. Finally, first from 
one bed and then, soon after, from the other, 
came the regular drone of heavy breathing. 



CHAPTER FIVE 


Gregory was surprised the next morning to 
discover that his world was not greatly changed. 
Last night’s events were vague. It would not 
be difficult, he thought, to put them entirely 
from his mind—to ignore their memory. He 
must have been asleep when Spelfer turned on 
the light. Jimmy had played the piano, and 
Jo had sung again. He had had another drink 
—a big one to brace him up. It hadn’t worked 
quickly enough, so he had taken another big 
one. He remembered walking down the street 
with Jimmy and the two girls. He had been 
in a taxi, and then he had tried to get into his 
room without making any noise. But all this 
was indefinite. He would forget it all in no 
time. 

Leonora was certain that she could trust him. 
It would be much easier to ignore the hazy re¬ 
collection if they had not had that conversation. 
In spite of the uncertainty of the memory, a 
barrier had unaccountably risen between 
Leonora and himself, and there seemed to be no 
way of tearing it down. He might tell her of 
his exploit. He rejected the possibility. It 
returned. He could never be happy with her 
if he did not tell her. That realization an- 


132 





COMMENCEMENT 


133 

noyed him. The dread he had recently felt re¬ 
turned. Something was about to happen. No, 
it was not that exactly. Things had happened 
too rapidly recently, and he was straining to 
resist new jolts. It was partly Leonora’s fault, 
anyway. He had offered to stay, and she 
laughed at him. She could have held him, had 
she wished. He had been capable of great, en¬ 
during love for Leonora, but she had repressed 
that love. She had forced him to be sane and 
calculating. She had driven him to that half 
dream last night. 

On his way to the office, he tried to gulp 
down, by way of mental remedy, Jimmy’s easy¬ 
going philosophy. It would not be hard, he 
thought, to become like Jimmy. He hummed 
a song to himself and, looking down at his 
trousers, decided to send them to be pressed 
as soon as he returned home. He might tell 
Leonora of the affair, or he might not. Why 
worry about it? He was making a great deal 
more mopey than most people of his age, and 
the thhig to do was to enjoy it. Catherine 
would be home to-night—^perhaps. He bols¬ 
tered up his affected jauntiness with a half-- 
hearted shrug of his shoulders. She would find 
him changed—a different person. As for 
Leonora, he would let matters drift. Things 
were happening these days, and it would be 
silly to make definite plans, to fret over event¬ 
ualities. Who would want to live an arranged, 


COMMENCEMENT 


m 

carefully planned life*? Perhaps this, with 
Leonora, was not to be his last romance . . . 

He settled himself at his desk and began to 
write. Miss Rossby brushed by his chair and 
he looked up at her. He liked to watch her, he 
realized. He liked to observe her narrow, lithe 
fingers as they deftly disposed of loose strands 
of her burnt-sienna hair, or struck swiftly down 
at the keys of her typewriter. He turned and 
surveyed her as she stood talking with one of 
the other stenographers. Possibly she was not 
as forbidding as he had imagined. Her wide, 
clean-cut mouth might indicate something less 
practical and more alluring than the determina¬ 
tion he had always associated with it. The 
breath from that supercilious, aquiline nose 
might be warmer than he had imagined. 

Miss Rossby started at the sound of a low 
buzzing noise coming from her desk. She 
picked up pad and pencil and hurried into Mr. 
Blooker’s office. A moment later she reap¬ 
peared. As she walked across the office, 
Gregory watched her long, capable hands and 
her small square wrists with the cuffs of her 
shirtwaist drawn tightly about them. She 
seemed always so certain. She worked deftly, 
quietly, with confident precision. Thoughts 
never seemed to dangle confusingly between her 
and her purpose. The other stenographers 
fussed and adopted grotesquely self-conscious 
attitudes. Perhaps it was only by contrast that 


COMMENCEMENT 135 

she appeared aloof, slightly supercilious. He 
dropped his eyes as she looked at him. 

“Mr. Blooker wants to see you.” 

“Me?’ 

“Yes.” 

A chill mounted along his fingers and with¬ 
drew the blood from his hands. He smoothed 
his hair, gave a twitch to his necktie, and 
walked to the door. His heart was pumping 
impatiently. 

“What’s the matter with you?’ 

Gregory looked inquiringly at Mr. Blooker. 

“You know there’s something as well as I 
do. You aren’t working. You’re laying down 
on the job, and you know it.” 

Gregory’s mouth was dry. He wondered 
how Jimmy would meet an attack of this sort. 

“I came in yesterday and saw you staring out 
of the window. I wouldn’t care about that if 
you were doing your work, but you’re not. 
How much have you written on the hotel book- 
let?’ 

“I—I’ve just started the writing.” 

“I thought so. Thrumm, I liked you when 
you first came in here. I still do, but I’ll fire 
you unless you wake up, and I’ll fire you quick, 
too. This is our second talk. There won’t be 
another. I’m not giving you advice. I’m tell¬ 
ing you facts—^hard, cold facts. I don’t pre¬ 
tend to know what’s the matter with you. But 
from my point of view, the work’s there and 


COMMENCEMENT 


136 

it’s got to be done by somebody. If you don’t 
do it, and do it well, I’ll find somebody who 
will.” Mr. Blocker slapped the table; then, 
as abruptly, he smiled. “Don’t get scared. All 
I’m trying to do is to wake you up, and you 
know darned well you need it. Now go out 
and write that booklet. You can do it.” 

As Gregory reached his desk. Miss Rossby 
glanced up from her work. He smiled ruefully 
at her. “I’ve been warned again,” he said as 
he sat down. He tried to assume a devil-may- 
care attitude. 

“Have you?” Miss Rossby watched him 
quizzically. 

“Yes. The usual thing—be wide awake and 
snappy and the world is yours.” He remem¬ 
bered, after he had spoken, that he had heard 
Jimmy use the same expression. 

“Well, it certainly wouldn’t be if you were 
sound asleep.” 

“Yes—it’s a question of whether you want 
the world or sleep.” He smiled deprecatingly. 
“Well, if he fires me, I expect there are other 
jobs.” 

“Jobs where you can sleep?” 

He laughed. “Oh, I suppose not. It’s a 
hard, cruel world, isn’t it?” 

She moved her hands toward the typewriter. 

“But, seriously, don’t you think there’s an 
awful lot of—of bunkum in Mr. Blocker’s atti¬ 
tude?” He had meant to say blah-blah and he 


COMMENCEMENT 


137 

was disappointed with himself that he had not 
had the courage to do it. It would take prac¬ 
tice, this new attitude. So far, he realized, he 
had not carried it through cleverly. 

Miss Rossby stifled a yawn. ‘'Oh, his advice 
is probably as good as any. After all, he’s 
made good, himself; he ought to know how it’s 
done. Anyway, I wish I were a man and had 
your chance. You’re one of Mr. Blooker’s pet 
ideas, and he’s naturally anxious to find that 
the ideas are good ones.” 

“But do you think he gets much out of life^” 

“As far as I know he gets a lot. What makes 
you think he doesn’t*?” 

“I don’t know—^his attitude.” 

“I don’t know anything about his life away 
from the office, but he certainly gets a lot of 
pleasure out of his work. He gets more out of 
it than—than Delby, anyway.” She glanced 
across the room to a glass-partitioned corner 
wherein sat a fat, bald-headed man punching 
deftly at an adding machine. 

“He may not.” 

“That’s certainly bunkum,” retorted Miss 
Rossby. “You probably imagine Delby spend¬ 
ing his evenings reading poetry and improving 
his mind—^just because he doesn’t make money. 
He probably goes to the movies and wishes he 
had money enough to go to regular shows. 
You ought to see his wife.” 

“What’s she like*?” 


138 COMMENCEMENT 

‘'Like—like a wealthy woman without any 
money.” 

Gregory jerked himself back to his affecta¬ 
tion of levity. “Oh, well, you ought to know 
Blooker better than I do. You may be right. 
Personally, I don’t care for that sort of thing.” 

“You’re young yet.” 

Gregory forced a smile. “I’m an awfully 
nice little playmate.” 

Miss Rossby’s pointed gaze met Gregory’s. 
He was the first to turn away. When he looked 
at her again she was sorting some papers on her 
desk. She was apparently oblivious of him. 
He wanted to turn back to his own desk, but 
volition seemed to have left him. He sat 
motionless, watching her as she began typing. 
The remark tore back and forth across his 
mind. “I’m an awfully nice little playmate. 
I’m an awfully nice little playmate . . .” He 
could so clearly imagine Jimmy making the 
same remark without this result. The whole 
office force must be looking at him. How 
loudly had he spoken? Why should such words 
sound raucous—^blatant, coming from his lips, 
and merely amusing when spoken by Jimmy? 
The whole conversation stood forth, gaunt and 
naked, in his mind. He stared dully at the 
fluff of red hair rising above the rattling type¬ 
writer. Did she know he was still looking at 
her? Would she know if he turned away now? 
Quietly he moved about in his swivel chair. 


COMMENCEMENT 139 

During the rest of the morning he tried to pre¬ 
tend that he was immersed in his work. 

‘‘Aren’t you going out to lunch, Thrumm*?” 

“Oh!” Gregory started and looked up into 
Spelfer’s colorless face. “What time is it*?” 

“Half past twelve. Come on, we’ll eat to¬ 
gether.” 

“I’m sorry. I—I can’t eat with you to-day. 
I promised some one else I’d go with him.” 

“Too bad.” Spelfer shrugged his shoulders. 
“Feelin’ a little shaky to-day?” 

“No, I’m all right.” 

Spelfer laughed. “It’s a great life, kid. 
We’ll have to have another party sometime. 
Oh, while I think of it, you’ll probably want 
this in a few days.” He winked at Gregory 
and laughed again. He picked up a pencil and 
scribbled on the corner of a sheet of paper 
the name Jo Tooey and, beneath, an address 
and a telephone number. “She thinks you’re 
hot stuff.” 

Gregory flushed and stared at the address. 

“And listen, kid, take a tip from me. The 
next time you go near liquor, don’t try to drink 
the whole bottle at once. It’s wasteful, and the 
result ain’t always what you expect it to be. 
We had to give you a bath last night to wake 
you up.” Spelfer winked again and walked 
across to the hat rack. 

Ten minutes later Gregory went out and ate 
alone. 


COMMENCEMENT 


140 

That night, when he returned home from 
business, Gregory was informed by one of the 
servants that Catherine was in her room and 
wanted to see him. Gregory rushed through 
the hall to her door. 

“Hello, Greg! You look as if you’d com¬ 
mitted a crime of some sort. Anything 
wrong 

“No, of course not. How are you*?” 

“Oh, Fm all right!” 

“Seriously, how are you, really?” 

“I honestly think you’re worried about me, 
Greg. It’s awfully nice of you. You’ve been 
awfully decent, after I went and got you mixed 
up in this awful mess. I’m feeling all right.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“Positive. I’ll be up and around in a few 
days.” 

“I hope-” 

“Thinking about the future? Don’t worry, 
Greg. Everything’s past now. The m-an I 
marry will be too busy making money to find 
out anything about my past history. Anyway, 
he couldn’t if he tried. Most men are as inno¬ 
cent and unsuspecting as babes in the woods, 
or, if they’re not, they suspect everyone in¬ 
discriminately. Either kind is easy to man¬ 
age. Don’t get the idea that I’m repentant and 
resolved to mend my wicked ways.” Catherine 
picked mechanically at the embroidered T on 
the sheet. “I don’t know, though. I’m get- 



COMMENCEMENT 


141 

ting sort of fed up with everything—the illicit 
pleasures of prohibition and sex and all that 
sort of thing.’’ 

“There isn’t much to it,” observed Gregory, 
weakly. 

“I don’t care whether there’s anything to it 
or not, as long as I get some enjoyment out of 
it. But I’m getting fed up. Damn it, Greg, 
why is it you can’t be gay and care free and all 
that, without being considered a degenerate or 
immoral^ There isn’t any way in between. 
You’ve got to either be a prude or a black sheep. 
Listen.” She propped herself on one elbow and 
spread her thin hand, palm up, on the coverlet. 
“Suppose I were to decide I’d done wrong— 
oh, I have, of course—and resolve to lead a bet¬ 
ter life and all that sort of thing. What would 
I do then? Go to church regularly and sit 
home nights talking over people and relatives 
with mother? I can’t stand her point of view. 
I can’t stand the kind of people she’d like to 
have me know and go with. Oh, you don’t 
know them as well as I do! They’re so darn 
well arranged in their heads, and before you 
can even begin to get on with them you’ve got 
to swallow them whole. If I had to stand that 
sort of thing long, I’d—I’d bust out and tell 
them what has just happened to me—^just to 
show them how much I cared for their ideas 
and their opinion.” 

“I understand what you mean.” 


142 


COMMENCEMENT 


'‘But on the other hand, Fm getting fed up 
with prohibition jokes and this bootleg broad 
mindedness. I wish I could find a few real 
human beings to go out with now and again. 
All this sounds as if I were getting highbrow, 
but I’m not. Fm not longing for some little 
group of serious thinkers. One sort of prude is 
as bad as another. It isn’t what you think as 
much as how you think it.” 

"Well, don’t expect me to give you the 
answer. I suppose most people would tell you 
that the reason you were discontented was that 
you didn’t have anything to do—nothing to oc- 
cupy your attention, but I don’t think that’s 
the trouble. I’ve got a job and enough to keep 
me busy, but I feel the way you do. I don’t 
know what it is.” 

"To think that father and mother should 
have had such children!” 

"Maybe they went through the same experi¬ 
ence themselves.” 

"Maybe, but I can’t imagine it. It’s hard 
to say. A few days ago I shouldn’t have sus¬ 
pected you of being discontented, and now look 
what I find—the model boy is fidgeting on his 
pedestal. But heavens! Greg, you’re engaged 
to be married! What’s happened to the rose 
tints that are supposed to color the world for 
people like you*?” 

"I don’t know. I’ve lost my nerve, I guess. 
I dread being tied down to a job for always—? 


COMMENCEMENT 


143 

as long as Tm able to hold it. The future seems 
dull, somehow. It—it isn’t that I’m not in 
love.” He spoke without decision. ‘It’s some¬ 
thing else I can’t quite figure out.” 

“Well, whatever it is, you’d better break 
away now before it’s too late.” 

“I dread-” 

Some one knocked at the door. 

“Come in,” called Catherine. 

A maid softly opened the door and stepped 
halfway into the room. “Mr. Morn just tele¬ 
phoned, Miss Catherine.” 

“Did he leave any messaged” 

“No, he just asked how you were.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Now what can he want?’ asked Catherine 
as the door was closed. “He telephoned yes¬ 
terday, too, so I hear. I met him one night a 
few weeks ago and I haven’t seen him since. I 
was surprised he even knew my name.” 

“Father doesn’t like the people who come to 
see you. He was speaking about it the other 
night at dinner.” 

“Yes, I know. He speaks about it to me 
every few days. Sometimes he gets angry and 
sometimes he pleads. I think I’ll surprise him 
one day and cut them all out. This Morn is 
supposed to paint or something. He interests 
me because he refused a drink of synthetic gin. 
In these times anyone who does a thing like that 



COMMENCEMENT 


144 

is bound to be interesting, unless, of course, he’s 
a prig, and Mom doesn’t appear to be.” 

Catherine took a cigarette from her box on 
the night table and offered Gregory one. They 
smoked in silence for a few moments. Gregory 
regarded Catherine’s pale-gray dressing-table. 
He wondered whether Leonora possessed a 
dressing-table and decided that she most likely 
did not. Certainly her toilet set was not of sil¬ 
ver-inlaid tortoise shell. That was the sort of 
thing he would be expected to provide. And 
that strangely shaped black bottle shot with 
gold. He leaned slightly forward to read the 
label: Parfum — Rosine — Borgia. Leonora did 
not quite approve of perfume unless very 
sparingly used and upon very rare occasions. 
Or was that because she could not afford to buy 
it? Nor did she approve of powder. Perhaps 
there was rouge in one of those boxes. 

‘‘Gregory, what do you really think of me?” 

He turned his face swiftly toward her.. 
What did he think of Catherine? “Why, I 
don’t know. What do you mean?” 

“You’ve seen me through this affair and 
you’ve been awfully nice about it all, but you 
think I’m a bad lot, and if I weren’t your sis¬ 
ter and you know what you know now, you’d 
never have anything to do with me, except for 
one purpose.” 

“No, I don’t think that’s true. I would have 
been that way a few weeks ago, but now I don’t 


COMMENCEMENT 


145 

know what I think or believe any more. I feel 
that I ought to act differently about it, but I 
couldn’t, with any conviction. I used to be sure 
of myself, but now I’m not sure of anything.” 

“Well, it’s served one purpose, anyway. 
We’ve become acquainted with each other. I 
shan’t look across the table at you any more and 
feel like throwing my plate in your face. That 
night you came home from college and got the 
check for a thousand dollars, I loathed you. 
You smiled so complacently and acted so self- 
satisfied and virtuous. It wasn’t that I was 
jealous of the thousand; it was the way you 
took it. As I think about it, I can’t understand 
how I ever summoned the courage to borrow 
money from you. I was desperate. When I 
get well, Greg, we’ll have a party. You can 
give it. I haven’t any money just now, but 
you can chip another piece off that thousand 
and-” 

The door opened and Mr. Thrumm stepped 
briskly and cheerily into the room. “Well, 
how’s my little girl to-night ? Better ?” 

“Oh, I’m all right.” 

Mr. Thrumm walked to the bed and kissed 
Catherine affectionately. “You look a little 
pale,” he said, pinching her cheek. 

“Oh, I’ll be all right in a day or so.” 

“Kitten,” he began, becoming serious, 
“you’ve got to stop running around the way 
you do. No one could stand the pace you’ve 



COMMENCEMENT 


146 

been keeping. IVe warned you again and 
again, and now I mean to put my foot down. 
The first of the month you and your mother and 
I are going away on a vacation, and this year 
it’s going to be a real vacation. Fve rented a 
bungalow in the Adirondacks, and there isn’t a 
hotel within ten miles of it. We three are go¬ 
ing to stay there and rest up. I wish you could 
come with us, Gregory.” 

“I don’t expect to get any vacation this year. 
I haven’t been working long enough to earn 
one.” 

“No, I suppose not.” 

“Won’t mother get awfully bored in a place 
like that^” asked Catherine. 

“She may not stay the full month; she’s been 
invited somewhere else for a few weeks, I 
think, but you and I are going to stay.” 

“All right. I’m willing.” 

Mr. Thrumm’s eyes widened slightly. 
“That’s fine. I was afraid I was going to be 
forced to threaten you in order to get you to go. 
We’ll have a good time all by ourselves, won’t 
we. Kitten? It would be nice if you could get 
away, son.” 

“Maybe I’ll lose my job. Then I could go 
with you.” 

Mr. Thrumm glanced sharply at Gregory. 
“If you lose it,” he said, firmly, “I won’t take 
you.” His manner softened quickly, and he 
put his hand on Gregory’s shoulder. “Don’t 


COMMENCEMENT 


147 

get that attitude, son. You’ll get adjusted 
soon.” 

The sympathy was directly to the point. 
How had his father ever happened to guess? 
That was just the word—‘"adjusted.” And yet 
it seemed impossible, almost coincidental, that 
his father should have understood. Gregory 
wanted to speak, to give recognition to the sym¬ 
pathy, but utter confidence, an attempt to state 
the turmoil, would be the only way, and that 
was impossible. Confession would mean even 
further disintegration of his ideas. “Ad¬ 
justed.” The word implied compromi{se, a 
careful arranging and planning, a settled pat¬ 
tern. It would have to come, of course, but 
now he was quite incapable of rejecting and 
choosing. There was the question of Leonora. 
Something—he hardly knew what—was pro¬ 
pelling his thoughts to reiteration of the sen¬ 
tence : I must tell her of Jo. The decision was 
sinking in unchallenged. He was being swept 
along to abject contrition. There was only one 
alternative—a complete break with her. And 
to contemplate such a catastrophe was some¬ 
thing like standing at the foot of a skyscraper 
and trying to view it as a whole. “I’m an aw¬ 
fully nice little playmate.” Even now he could 
feel the color deepen in his cheeks. It was 
futile to try to laugh off the incident. 

His father was leaning over the bed and talk¬ 
ing to Catherine. Gregory saw his sister’s arms 


COMMENCEMENT 


148 

rise swiftly from the bed cover and encircle his 
father’s neck. The muscles in the white arms 
were taut, and his father’s head was jerked 
down to the pillow. Mr. Thrumm was smiling 
as he straightened up and left the room. 

“We’ve frightened him, Greg,” said Cath¬ 
erine, as she saw him looking down thought¬ 
fully at her. “He seems to know there’s some¬ 
thing wrong, and he’s groping pitifully.” 

“He seems to want to say something or do 
something.” 

“And he takes it out in handing us checks.” 
She shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, well, there’s 
no use getting sentimental about it.” 

Gregory sighed and turned to the door. 

“Come and see me again, Greg. We’ll go 
on straightening out the world.” 

“You seem to be impatient to-night, 
Gregory.” 

Gregory, as had become customary, drew 
Leonora into his arms and kissed her. And, as 
had also become customary, she suffered herself 
to be kissed several seconds before drawing 
away. 

“Why shouldn’t I be impatient? Don’t 
you want me to be?” 

“Of course I do, but this is unusual. Has 
anything happened?” 

“Nothing.” 


COMMENCEMENT 


149 


As she led the way through the narrow hall, 
Gregory moistened his lips. He would make 
his confession quickly, before he had time to 
think more of it. The idea was not as unpleas¬ 
ant as he had expected it would be. There was 
the excitement of uncertainty. He was keyed 
to excitement. 

“John’s in New York.” 

“John^? Your brother 

“Yes. I thought it was probably him when 
I heard the bell. He telephoned he would be 
over to-night.” 

They entered the living room. 

“Good evening, Gregory.” Mrs. Frail smiled 
wanly. 

“How do you do, Mrs. Frail.” 

“I heard Leonora telling you John was in the 
city. I’m so anxious to see him again. I don’t 
see, though, why he didn’t come straight here 
instead of telephoning.” 

“He said he was in the city on business,” sug¬ 
gested Leonora. 

“I do wonder what his surprise can be.” 

“Yes, I wonder, too.” Leonora turned to¬ 
ward Gregory. “John said he had a big sur¬ 
prise for us. I can’t imagine what it can be.” 

There followed a lull in the conversation. It 
was obvious to Gregory that the two women 
were waiting anxiously for John. His own 
entrance had been little more than a false 
alarm. The desire for confession quickened 


COMMENCEMENT 


150 

with the realization that it was now impossible. 
It vexed him that Leonora should appear quite 
casual, though he could formulate no reason 
that she should be otherwise. The barrier be¬ 
tween them was becoming more ponderous. 
With his will to confession now frustrated, this 
barrier might never be reduced. 

He turned to study the large, silver-framed 
photograph of John Frail which stood upon the 
mantelpiece. Erect, firm, almost bristling with 
resolve and energy, John looked anxious to be 
finished with the trivial act of having his pic¬ 
ture taken. One wondered why he had ever 
condescended to engage in such an occupation. 
His long, thin nose had a slight boss on the 
end. The nose was an elongated replica of his 
mother’s. The sharp-cut face expressed spear¬ 
like purpose. In his eyes there was no doubt, 
no tolerance of possibilities. 

“Don’t you think he’s good-looking?” 

Gregory turned his eyes to Leonora’s. “Yes. 
He’s stern, isn’t he?” 

“No, I shouldn’t say that. He can be aw¬ 
fully jolly and funny when he wants to. A 
couple of years ago we went to a Hallowe’en 
party together, and everyone there spent most 
of their time laughing at him.” Leonora 
smiled reminiscently. “He was too funny. 
He put on one of those hats—you know, the 
kind you get in those pully things—then he 
stood up on a chair and made a Salvation Army 


COMMENCEMENT 


151 

speech. I never knew before that John could 
be so funny.” She looked admiringly at the 
picture. ''He can be stern, though.” 

"If all boys were like John,” said Mrs. Frail, 
looking at Gregory, "it would be a pleasure to 
have them. He seems too good to be true some¬ 
how. Since he’s made so much money, he’s 
always sending me things or doing something 
for me. I do hope he’s come to New York to 
stay.” 

"He hasn’t, mother, as you know very well. 
Don’t think about it, or you’ll be disappointed. 
Of course-Here comes father.” 

Mr. Frail’s angular figure filled the doorway. 
"Good evening, Gregory. How are you*?” 

"I’m well.” Gregory smiled and started from 
his chair. 

"No, no, stay where you are. It must have 
been a disappointment when you arrived in¬ 
stead of John. How’s business?” 

"Fairly good.” 

"I have become a librarian. There’s a great 
future to that business. I expect shortly to 
become one of the soundest and most far¬ 
sighted librarians in the city. It’s an industry 
that has a future. More and more people are 
keeping their books overtime, and that costs 
them two cents a day for each book. It doesn’t 
sound like much, but consider the amount of 
money that has been made from penny-in-the- 
slot machines. I’m thinking of starting an ad- 



152 COMMENCEMENT 

vertising campaign, and, if I do. I’ll come to 
you. Young man, every book you read raises 
your brow one hundredth of an inch. Our 
slogan will be: Watch your brow climb.” 

‘Well,” observed Mrs. Frail, “I understand 
that once you get a job like that you aren’t 
likely to lose it, anyway. I wonder what John 
will say.” 

“John, I hope, will always be respectful to 
his father.” 

“He’s probably made up his mind to sup¬ 
porting us in our old age.” 

“Yes, I suppose so. All of which proves 
that birth control has its drawbacks.” 

“If you had any decency, Jonathan, you 
wouldn’t talk about such things before 
Leonora.” 

“You’ve often said you wished the children 
had never been born.” 

“You know as well as I do that I never 
really wished it. It was only because we 
couldn’t give them the advantages other chil¬ 
dren enjoyed.” Her eyes were sharp and men¬ 
acing, and her thin lips curled scornfully. 
“When we get old, and you’re not able to be a 
librarian any longer, you may thank God- 

A prolonged ringing of the bell cut short 
Mrs. Frail’s prophecy. Leonora jumped to her 
feet and fluttered out of the room. A door was 
opened, and an abrupt jangle of voices sounded 
through the hallway. “Well, well, sis. . . . 



COMMENCEMENT 


153 

John. . . . Looking well. . . . How’s every¬ 
thing?” Then the voices were lowered, and 
only the faint unintelligible hiss of whispering 
was audible. 

‘‘They’re talking- 

“Shh! Keep quiet.” Mr. Frail was lean¬ 
ing forward in her chair. 

Firm, quick strides were heard in the hall, 
and a tall figure stalked into the room 

“John!” 

“Hello, mother!” He stooped to receive her 
embrace. “Why the tears? So you’re feeling 
bad because I came home to see you. That’s a 
nice-” 

“You know it isn’t that, John. I’m so glad 
to see you!” She smiled through her tears. 

“How are you, dad?” The two shook 
hands silently. 

During the bustle of greetings, Gregory had 
been standing in the corner of the room by the 
window, endeavoring to appear not at all in¬ 
terested in John’s homecoming. Gregory had 
about decided that his own presence was un¬ 
noticed, when John turned and walked toward 
him. 

“How are you, Thrumm? When Leonora 
wrote me the glad news I wasn’t quite sure who 
you were. I couldn’t place you. I remember 
now.” He shook Gregory’s hand heartily. 
“Congratulations.” He turned toward his 
parents again. “Well, you’re both looking 





COMMENCEMENT 


154 

fine.” He drove his hands deep into his trousers 
pockets and forced back his shoulders. “I 
hope you’re ready for that surprise I spoke 
about over the phone. It’s a big one. 
Leonora ’ll be in with it in a minute. Brace 
yourselves for the shock.” 

‘What is it, John?’ 

“You’ll know in a minute, mother.” He 
smiled nervously and reached for his handker¬ 
chief. “I hope you’ll like—it. You must.” 

“Your mother will like any surprise from 
you, John.” 

“I hope so, dad.” 

“And I don’t matter.” Mr. Frail smiled as 
if trying to rid this remark of any traces of self- 
pity. 

“Of course you matter, only you’re sort of 
more—^more—oh, you know what I mean— 
than mother. Things don’t affect you so much. 
You’re more philosoph- Here comes Leo¬ 

nora now—with the surprise.” He stepped 
jerkily to the doorway. 

Mrs. Frail, who was leaning forward ex¬ 
pectantly, suddenly drew in her breath. Fre- 
ceding Leonora, a short, frail young woman 
stepped into the room. Her lazy, gray eyes 
fleetingly surveyed the Frails and Gregory and 
finally turned questioningly up to John. 

“And this is the surprise.” John led the 
young woman across the room to where his 
mother was standing awkwardly before hei' 



COMMENCEMENT 


155 

chair. “Mother, I want you to meet my wife.” 

“Your wife!” Mrs. Frail drew back, re¬ 
covered herself, and put her hands out before 
her gropingly. “John’s wife. Why, I 
can’t-You must forgive me. This is so un¬ 
expected. I hardly know-” 

The girl took Mrs. Frail’s hand in hers. “I 
know how you must feel,” she said, effusively. 
“I advised John that it would be better to 
write to you, but he insisted upon doing it this 
way. It all happened so quickly. I’m almost 
as much surprised as you are.” 

Mrs. Frail drew the girl to her and kissed 
her. Thereupon she dropped into her chair and 
applied her handkerchief to her eyes. 

“And this is my father.” 

“How do you do. I, you see, am more— 
what is it \—^more philosophical than my wife.” 

“I’m aVfully glad to know you, Mr. Frail. 
I suppose I should call you father, but you 
won’t mind if I don’t, will you^ That custom 
is so dreadfully old fashioned.” She withdrew 
her hand from his and half turned to Mrs. 
Frail. “Oh dear! you mustn’t feel so badly. 
After all, we’re only married, you know. I 
was afraid it would be like this.” She turned 
to John. “Why don’t you say something to 
your mother, John*? You ought to comfort 
her. It is a shock.” 

“It is,” said Mr. Frail. “It’s a very great 
shock. You see, for all we know, you may not 




156 COMMENCEMENT 

be the sort of wife we should like John to 
have.” 

The girl stared at Mr. Frail a moment, 
raised her eyebrows slightly, and turned to 
John, who was now attempting to soothe his 
mother. 

Leonora stepped forward. “May I present 
my fiance?” she asked, beckoning to Gregory. 
He mumbled an indistinct phrase of greeting 
and retired once more to his corner. 

He wondered whether Mrs. Frail instinc¬ 
tively disliked the girl as much as he did, or 
whether she was merely weeping because of the 
shock and excitement. Frobably because of her 
overturned plans for the future. He watched 
John’s wife with the fascination of antipathy. 
Her white, smug little face peering from be¬ 
tween the edges of two straight curtains of 
black hair expressed to him nothing but selfish 
dismay at the scene which was being enacted. 
He followed her with his eyes as she walked 
to the mantlepiece and surveyed herself in the 
glass above it. She patted her hair, examined 
her fingernails, and suppressed a yawn. Greg¬ 
ory noticed that Mr. Frail, too, was watching 
her. 

“You mustn’t feel bad, mother. You 
haven’t any reason to, you know.” 

“I don’t really feel bad, John. It’s—it’^ 
the surprise, I guess.” She smiled wanly and 
scrubbed her cheeks. “I don’t know why I am 


COMMENCEMENT 157 

crying. You’ll forgive me, won’t you*? Why, 
I don’t believe I know your name yet!” 

The girl left the mantlepiece and sat down 
in an uncertain gilt chair beside Mrs. Frail. 
“Lucille. John’s so excited he forgot to men¬ 
tion it. I told him again and again that he 
ought not to spring a thing like this on you all 
of a sudden. But he would do it.” 

“Well, it’s done now. You must tell me 
about it. I don’t know anything but that you’re 
married.” 

“There isn’t much to tell. John and I be¬ 
came interested in each other at a dance—^let 
me see—^just a month ago. He called several 
times, asked me to marry him one day about 
two weeks ago, and the day before yesterday we 
were married at the city hall.” 

“The city hall!” 

“Yes, weddings are such a bore, don’t you 
think*? So old fashioned, too. They’re like 
women wearing rings in their noses and promis¬ 
ing to obey and all that sort of thing.” 

“It wasn’t because your people objected, 
then*?” Mrs. Frail inquired fearfully. 

“Oh, dear, no! Father and John are as 
chummy as can be. My mother is dead. Any¬ 
way, we’re safely married.” 

“Marriage is an awfully old fashioned way 
of establishing relations between the two sexes, 
don’t you think?” asked Mr. Frail, absently. 

“Yes, it is. I used to think I’d never submit 


COMMENCEMENT 


158 

to it, but John would never have agreed to 
anything else. He was terribly balky as it was, 
weren’t you, dear?” 

“At first, but now I rather like the idea of 
the way we did it.” 

“It must be a shock, but you don’t mind, 
now that it’s all over, do you, Mrs. Prail?” 
Lucille stared critically at an oil painting 
hanging just above her mother-in-law’s head, 
and then leisurely examined the furnishings of 
the room. 

“I suppose I’ll get used to it in time.” 

“John tells me you are literary, Mr. Frail.” 

“I work in a library.” 

“But you write, too, don’t you?” 

“I didn’t think John would ever divulge the 
family shame, but still, as long as you are to 
be one of us, so to speak, it’s probably just as 
well for you to know all about me.” 

“I don’t see any shame about it. Literary 
people are so much more interesting than others, 
don’t you think?” 

“I don’t know any.” 

“They talk about books and interesting 
things.” 

“Yes, I believe they talk shop even more 
than business men do, but that’s always tiring.” 

“I think their work is always worth talking 
about, and interesting to hear about, too.” 

“Why did you marry John?” 


COMMENCEMENT 


159 

“Why”—she laughed at the absurdity of the 
question—“because I happened to fall in love 
with him, I suppose.” 

“But he is not literary.” 

“He may be more so than you think. It 
seems so funny, John being brought up in a 
literary atmosphere, and yet he seems to be in¬ 
tellectually starved. We’ve had long talks 

together and-You don’t mind my telling 

this, do you, John?” 

John shifted self-consciously in his chair. 
His wife’s eyes were upon his. “No, I don’t 
mind.” 

“Well, all I have to say is that if you con¬ 
sider John is satisfied with mere wage-earning, 
you’re not acquainted with your son. I should 
never marry a—a cash register.” 

“No, I shouldn’t care for it myself. I 
shouldn’t say that John resembled one, al¬ 
though, for all I know, there may be money in 
his drawers.” 

“Jonathan!” 

Gregory, to everyone’s surprise, gave vent 
to a sudden, resounding burst of laughter. 
Then, when he saw that he was laughing alone, 
he quickly became silent. 

Lucille smiled tiredly. “John has been very 
successful—remarkably so, but he feels, as I 
do, that there is something higher and more 
worth while in life than mere money-getting.” 



l6o COMMENCEMENT 

‘'Has he given up his job?’’ asked Mr. 
Frail. 

“Oh no, of course not! But he’s not going 
to be a tired bore all the time.” 

“Lots of sleep and fresh air ought to rest 
him up, I should think.” 

“Of course I don’t mean that kind of tired¬ 
ness. I mean the stupidity that comes from 
thinking of one’s business. John has a good 
mind, but he’s never developed it properly.” 

“Going to spend your evenings reading 
Keats and Shelley in the future, are you, 
John?” 

“You don’t take it very seriously, do you, 
dad?” asked John, grimly. 

“Of course he’s not going to spend his eve¬ 
nings reading Keats and Shelley. Anyone 
would get bored reading Victorian people like 
that.” 

“The old queen reigned a long time, didn’t 
she?” 

“How long do you plan to stay in New 
York?” asked Mrs. Frail, breaking into the 
conversation. 

“I’ve got to go back Monday, mother.” 

“Literary work?” inquired Mr. Frail. 

“Yea, I’m going to write a book,” retorted 
John, with some annoyance. 

“Jonathan, I think it’s nasty of you to tease 
John that way, when he’s only going to be here 
a few days. And I want to hear all about you,” 


COMMENCEMENT 


i6i 


she continued, turning to John and his wife. 
“Anybody might think nothing unusual had 
happened, the way everybody’s rambling on 
about other things.” 

“There isn’t much to tell, mother. We’re 
married, and that’s all there is to it. If you 
can think of any questions. I’ll be glad to an¬ 
swer them.” 

“I can’t think of any this minute, but there 
ought to be so much to tell. Where are you 
going to live*?” 

“We haven’t found a place,” replied Lucille. 
“We shall stay at a hotel until we find just 
what we want.” 

“Dear, dear! I can’t realize it somehow. 
John married. It doesn’t seem possible. And 
Leonora engaged.” 

“I suppose you’ll be eloping one of these 
days^” Mr. Frail turned questioningly toward 
Gregory. 

“When I’m earning that twenty thousand a 
year perhaps.” 

“How are you getting along, Thrumm? 
You’re in the advertising line, aren’t you*?” 
asked John. 

“Yes. I’m getting along fairly well.” 

“An interesting business, I should think, and 
a lot of money to be made in it, too.” 

“Gregory has decided he isn’t going to make 
money. He has literary leanings, too,” inter¬ 
jected Mr. Frail. “Literature is enjoying an 


i 62 


COMMENCEMENT 


unparalleled popularity to-day. You ought 
to open a salon” he said, turning to his wife. 
‘‘Look at the start we have among our own 
family. We could serve tea and have poetry 
read, and discuss how much better off our 
country would be if there were no business men 
in it, or if it were like France or England or 
some place else.’’ 

“But don’t you think,” asked Lucille, lean¬ 
ing forward attentively, “that we have much 
to learn from the older civilizations *?” 

“Much, and so have all present-day civiliza¬ 
tions. Have you ever been abroad^” 

“No, but John and I are going soon—^next 
year, we hope. I’m awfully anxious to go. I 
do think, from what I’ve heard, that people 
know better how to live over there than we 
do here.” 

“Some of them do, no doubt, but they are 
hardly expert enough to give us lessons. Con¬ 
sider what Victoria’s reign did to us. It’s a 
question of the Fiji Islanders trying to change 
their civilization to that of the Hottentots. 
It seems to me it would be better for us to try 
to create a civilization that might, without 
justifying blushes, be called a civilization, in¬ 
stead of trying to shoulder an old makeshift 
that has again and again proved its worthless¬ 
ness. It’s too bad for our young artists that 
such good liquor is served in Paris cafes and 
that Frenchwomen understand that sex may 


COMMENCEMENT 


163 

be developed to a fine art. I agree with Ana- 

tole France in LTle des Pingouins: ‘ . les 

Grangers ne viennent point admirer nos 
hdtisses: Us viennent voir nos cocottes^ nos 
couturiers et nos hastringues.^ However, John 
is safely married, so he will have to visit 
churches and picture galleries, whether he 
wants to or not.” 

“Oh, wehe not going over like tourists. 
We’re going over to study the people and the 
things they’re doing to-day. I have no desire 
to gawp at gruesome crucifixions and weeping 
virgins.” 

“So old fashioned, aren’t they^?” 

“Frightfully. And everyone goes and stares 
at them and says, ‘Oh, aren’t they beautiful.’ 
And really, they’re hideous and badly drawn.” 

“You’re very modern, aren’t you*?” 

Lucille smiled. “You aren’t going to tell 
me that young ladies were different when you 
were a boy, are you?” 

“No, they weren’t.” 

Lucille raised her eyebrows slightly and 
made no reply. 

“I guess you’re right, dad, about our being 
as civilized as they are over there. That’s the 
way I look at it, too.” 

“There isn’t any reason for being complacent 
about it.” 

“What did your father say about your 



i 64 commencement 

being married at the city hall^” asked Mrs. 
Frail. 

While Lucille explained to her mother-in- 
law that nothing had been said, Gregory 
turned to look at Leonora. She had not spoken 
since Lucille’s arrival, and she sat now, her 
head drooping slightly forward, observing the 
latest acquisition to the family. There was 
neither approval nor disapproval in her gaze, 
merely puzzled appraisal. As Gregory watched 
her, she turned to glance at him, smiled faintly, 
and looked away again. It occurred to Greg¬ 
ory that it might perhaps be as well if he went 
home. After all, he was not yet a member of the 
family, and his presence might cause a certain 
constraint. And with this thought there came 
a feeling of embarrassment. It would be diffi¬ 
cult to break away now. He had no excuse. 
This was an uncomfortable sort of family dis¬ 
turbance to witness. He looked about the 
room. Strange that these people should be so 
closely connected when they were so unlike, 
each almost antipathetic to the other. Each 
one hid behind his or her own comfortable pose. 
Soon he would have to take a part in these 
family discussions—adopt a pose and a posi¬ 
tion. John was resentful of Mr. Frail’s gibes; 
they upset his pose. Yet, under different cir¬ 
cumstances, he would be the first to ridicule 
such phrases as ‘'awfully old fashioned, don’t 
you think Gregory rubbed his eyes. One 


COMMENCEMENT 165 

day he would find it necessary to echo Leonora’s 
words, to resent any ridicule of her. He 
looked at his watch. Half past nine. John 
and Lucille and Mrs. Frail were still discussing 
the marriage. Leonora was listening. Mr. 
Frail appeared to be seeing interesting things 
on the ceiling. Gregory rose and walked up to 
Leonora. 

think I’ll be going,” he mumbled. 

‘‘But it isn’t late, Gregory.” 

“No, but”—he glanced toward John and 
his wife—“perhaps it would be just as well to 
go early to-night.” 

She shrugged her shoulders. “As you wish.” 
Thereupon she, too, arose. 

“Are you going now, Gregory?” Mr. Frail 
slowly withdrew his gaze from the ceiling. 

“Yes, I think I’d better.” 

“If you don’t mind, I’ll step out with you. 
I want to mail a letter and buy some tobacco.” 

Gregory took leave of Mrs. Frail and John 
and his wife. The last merely expressed a po¬ 
lite surprise at his going and murmured a de¬ 
sire to see him again. He felt, though he could 
not assign a reason, that he was not liked by 
John and Lucille. Fossibly it was because he 
had laughed too heartily at the comparison of 
John to a cash register. At the door he 
squeezed Leonora’s hand. The pressure was 
conventionally returned, and he started down 
the stairs with Mr. Frail. 


i66 COMMENCEMENT 

“I should never have expected it of John,’’ 
said Mr. Prail, half to himself, ‘‘No, never. 
And yet, now that it has happened, it all 
seems quite normal and fitting.’’ 

“You mean his eloping^” 

“Yes, partly, but more than that, his being 
led astray by a desire for something higher, as 
it’s called.” 

Gregory made no comment. 

“Yes, it’s very natural—very. He’s at¬ 
tracted by the lure of that vague thing called 
art—a new experience for him; whereas you 
were at first attracted by Leonora’s firm prac¬ 
ticality. And yet, I don’t imagine either of 
you will change much. Do you like John’s 
wife^” 

“I don’t know. I don’t know her very well. 
I didn’t talk with her at all.” 

“No, I knew you didn’t like her. Why is it 
we’re always suspicious of anyone who is so 
frankly devoted to art and cultured We de¬ 
spise the modern business man for having no 
interest in such things, and yet, when we find 
some one like Lucille, who is an out and out 
propagandist for the higher life, we immedi¬ 
ately become skeptical; we feel instinctively 
antagonistic. I had an almost uncontrollable 
desire, while I was talking with her, to spit on 
the floor. But what if she doesn’t know much 
about art*? What if her ideas are half baked*? 
She’s interested, and that’s something.” 


COMMENCEMENT 


167 

'‘Maybe she’s not really interested. I’ve 
heard you say that such things were fashion¬ 
able to-day.” 

“Yes, that’s probably the answer. It isn’t 
art; it’s the name and the glamour. Still, it is 
a start. Who knowsThere must be people 
like that who accidentally become interested in 
the thing itself. Sometimes I think that all 
great books and pictures ought to have some¬ 
thing melodramatic or pornographic in them. 
More people would seek them then, and some 
of those who came for thrills might remain for 
thoughts, or beauty.” 

“But you’ve always told me not to read, not 
to become interested in things like that. 
You’ve said that people who had to make a liv¬ 
ing should keep their attention on their jobs 
and nothing else.” 

“So I have. So I have. Well, there’s some¬ 
thing in that idea, and there’s something in this 
one, too. It makes no difference. You haven’t 
taken the advice I gave you. You probably 
never will, so what harm can it do if I’m not 
always consistent? And besides, hearing con¬ 
flicting ideas is always conducive to thought, 
and if, by any chance, I should cause you to 
think seriously, I should have accomplished 
more than real advice ever could.” 

“Yes, but that’s just what you warned me 
against—thinking too much.” 


i68 


COMMENCEMENT 


“So I did. Well, I am in a different mood 
to-night. John’s marriage has probably made 
me sentimental. You haven’t decided yet 
when you’re going to get married, have you?” 

“No.” 

“Why don’t you do it now?” 

“Because I’m not earning enough money. 
I’ve suggested it, but Leonora refused.” 

“She’s the one who decides these matters 
then?” 

Gregory flushed. “Oh, she’s right,” he said. 
“It would be foolish, I suppose.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I’m not earning enough, and I 
haven’t proved that I ever will, yet.” 

“Then why did you urge her to marry you 
right away?” 

“I wasn’t thinking of the practical side of it 
at the time.” 

“And you don’t realize what all of this 
means?” 

Gregory looked up at the thoughtful, almost 
abstracted eyes of Mr. Frail. “I don’t know 
what you mean.” 

“Simply this: a damaging precedent has al¬ 
ready, it seems to me, been established in the 
balance of relations between you and Leonora. 
Your future life will probably be dictated by 
her. Leonora, you seem to think, is a person 
whose judgment is far superior to yours. Na¬ 
turally she thinks so. And there you are. Once 


COMMENCEMENT 


i6g 

you’ve established that idea, you’ll find it im¬ 
possible to change it, or remove it. She will 
mother and manage you. She has won the first 
battle, the most important one.” 

“You seem to think,” said Gregory, some¬ 
what bitterly, ‘‘that there’s a sort of war on 
between Leonora and me.” 

“Naturally you don’t like that idea.” 

“I shouldn’t get married to her if I believed 
it was so. I couldn’t love a person I was fight¬ 
ing with all the time.” 

“Then the only way to stay in love is to be 
right always. Some people are able to subject 
themselves peaceably, but you, I think, would 
haggle over it. You wouldn’t assert yourself 
and you wouldn’t give in. The result would be 
trying for you both. Now here is the way to 
remedy the harm already done. Go to Leon¬ 
ora. Say to her that she must marry you next 
Tuesday, we’ll say, and that, if she refuses, 
you won’t marry her at all. Be confident, self- 
assertive, laugh down her misgivings, and stick 
to your demand. If you can do that and not 
weaken, never giving her the slightest intima¬ 
tion that you lack confidence—well, you will 
worry less yourself.” 

“But supposing she refused 

“Then don’t marry her.” Mr. Frail smiled 
sympathetically at Gregory. “You couldn’t 
take that advice, no matter how much you 
wanted to, could you^ Neither could 1 . If 


COMMENCEMENT 


170 

you’d been the sort of person who was capable 
of doing a thing like that, you would have 
acted long ago, and you wouldn’t listen so po¬ 
litely to my twaddle. It’s such fun giving ad¬ 
vice when you know there isn’t any possibility 
of its being followed. How’s business?” 

“I was warned again this morning that I 
wasn’t making good.” 

“I guess it’s too late for you to follow my 
advice, then. Followed carefully, it would 
have saved you from a life managed for you.” 

“But I don’t see why anyone has got to 
manage. Can’t two people live together with¬ 
out one of them managing the other?” 

“Perhaps there are two such people, but it’s 
not usual. The usual way, I think, is for both 
to try to hold the lead, an exciting arrange¬ 
ment, but one which allows little time for con¬ 
tentment.” 

Mr. Frail stopped before the door of a cigar 
store and looked contemplatively at Gregory. 
“I think I’m more serious in all this than I 
may sound. You are drifting discontentedly. 
If you could drift peacefully—if you were the 
sort that naturally drifts—I should say noth¬ 
ing. But you’re not. You worry about it— 
wonder where you’re going and why, and yet 
you do nothing about it. You have imagined 
love as a sort of scarlet whirlwind. You wish 
to relax and have it sweep you into Arcadia. 
It won’t. If you wish to reach Arcadia you’ve 


COMMENCEMENT 


171 


got to make arrangements about getting there, 
and then you’ve got to get up and go. I 
analyze you so confidently because I think we 
are fundamentally alike. I have dreamed as I 
believe you dream, and I have drifted as you 
are drifting. And now I am an underpaid 
librarian. But then, I have begun to learn 
something of the art of living—something, not 
much. That art you will have to learn for 
yourself. Not even Leonora can give you 
lessons.” 

“I’m afraid I’ll never learn it. Every time 
I think I’ve found out something about it, I 
discover I was all wrong.” 

“All of which proves you’re progressing. 
My son never would discover that he was 
wrong. He undoubtedly believes firmly that 
he is the head and master of his newly ac¬ 
quired family. He will never believe that he 
is not. Nor will he ever believe that his wife 
is in any way deficient in her knowledge of the 
higher things of life. John was born a be¬ 
liever, and he is therefore proof against the 
logic of facts. He is an idealist, whereas you 
and I are fated to be discontented and ques¬ 
tioning. He soars, while we hop fretfully 
about.” 

“Do you think he has learned the art of 
living?” 

“No, he knows nothing about it. He doesn’t 
even know there is such an art, so it doesn’t 


COMMENCEMENT 


[172 

bother him. That is, of course, another solu¬ 
tion. Strain for some point, some goal, and 
think of nothing else. It’s like taking morphine 
or opium. It dulls your wits, but it brings you 
beautiful unreality. Well, I must go in and 
buy my tobacco and hurry back to our family 
gathering. It must be a great help to you— 
everything I say is so precise and logical. I 
solve your problems so neatly and tidily. 
Good night.” 

What was the use, anyway, in trying not to 
drift? Leonora, you must marry me to-morrow 
or not at all—to-morrow at ten. Of course she 
would laugh. Don’t be silly, Gregory. But 
you must. Now listen, Gregory—long ex¬ 
planations of perfectly valid reasons. The red 
house nestled among the green trees. Arcadia 
that must be bought and paid for and cleaned 
and supported. Leonora was right in every¬ 
thing. Her father was a maundering old fogey. 
What did he spend his time in writing? 
Nothing worth while, else he would have been 
heard of long before this. What the old man 
lacked was common sense. He contradicted 
himself again and again, anyway. The soap 
was preferable. His father enjoyed life more 
than old Frail. One must work hard all the 
time. He must work harder. But writing ad¬ 
vertisements wasn’t hard work, not in the sense 
of the word he meant. It didn’t keep one from 
thinking. Perhaps a different job would an- 


COMMENCEMENT 


173 

swer the question. His father might take him 
in, now that he had proved that he could make 
good by himself. But he hadn’t proved that 
yet. How could one prove it finally until one 
died, leaving a large bank-balance? 

He reached Riverside Drive and turned up 
in the direction of his home. There he stopped 
irresolutely, finally crossed the Drive, and 
perched himself upon the low stone wall above 
the park. He shivered slightly, for the night 
was cool and misty. The rows of lights along 
the river hung veiled and wan. A footfall 
sounded heavy and dull farther down the walk. 
From the river came the fretful groaning of 
bass whistles. The mist seemed to settle 
snugly about him, emphasizing his loneliness, 
his lack of sympathy with the massive stone 
city that loomed up before him. 

He lit a cigarette and drew deeply of the 
smoke. Why couldn’t he take things as they 
came, like Jimmy? Why always worry over 
the future and over a hundred things that 
couldn’t be changed? Why not be like anyone 
but himself—Blooker, Aunt Annie, Klint, 
Spelfer? Or did they all worry, too? No one 
except Leonora and her father and Catherine 
knew that he did. Perhaps it was really the 
same with everyone, except for any one of a 
number of varieties of bluff. Did everyone 
wear a merely superficial mask of purpose and 
certainty? Or perhaps the wearing of the 


COMMENCEMENT 


174 

mask produced the actual state in the wearer. 
Or perhaps a lot of things. But why worry 
about them*? Jo. His recollection of her 
sprang freshly to life. He laughed. She had 
the right idea. He blushed slightly. In a de¬ 
lirious moment the night before, he had told her 
he loved her. ‘‘How do you get that way*? 
You’re drunk, not in love.” Why not see her 
again? As long as Leonora wanted to put 
things on a practical basis, why not use that 
way as an outlet for desire? Why not? Jo 
was right, maybe. Ain’t nature wonderful? 
“An awfully nice little playmate.” 

“Oh damn it! I’ve got to work this out. 
I’ve got to.” He drove his hands together 
again. “I can’t go along this way.” He spoke 
aloud, but, even as he was speaking, a phrase 
of Jo’s echoed through his mind—“Hot dog.*’ 
Why can’t I forget the things I want to? 
What’s happened to me? I must stop this 
drifting. I must. I must forget everything 
except that I love Leonora and that I must 
work for her—^do as she wishes. No, that’s not 
it—^because it’s right. Damn Jo! Damn her! 
Damn her! I never want to see Jimmy or 
Spelfer again. I ought to break away and 
start all over—new friends, new work, new 
everything. What a mess! Bunkum. There 
ought not to be words like that. They ruin 
ideals and resolutions. Bunkum, hot dog, 
blah-blah. Work for Leonora and keep my- 


COMMENCEMENT 17 5 

self pure for her. Why is that so silly? Why 
does it sound funny? And yet, if I don’t, Fm 
a worm. We’re all a lot of worms and the 
world s a cheese. Somebody ought to throw it 
away—put it in the universal garbage can. 
Silly idea to think anyone should give his life 
to save it. He had wanted to confess to 
Leonora, but now the impulse was gone. He 
would never do it. Loneliness settled about 
him. 


CHAPTER SIX 


Gregory heard Miss Rossby drawing the 
rubber cover over her typewriter. She would 
go out now for a few minutes, return with her 
hat on, pick up her handbag from the desk, and 
leave the office. If he were to speak to her 
that day, he must do it soon. He looked over 
his shoulder. She had already turned and was 
walking toward the door. She left the room 
without a glance back. Gregory picked up the 
litter of papers on his desk and jammed them 
into a drawer. A quarter past five. Mr. 
Blooker hurried out of his office and stalked 
across the room. 

‘‘Good night, Thrumm.” 

“Good night, Mr. Blooker.” 

The office was quiet. The machine called 
the Blooker Advertising Agency was in repose. 
A score of human beings had gone to enjoy 
respite from the galleys. In what consisted 
the beauty, the fullness of such lives, of his 
own*? Last night he had been reading extracts 
from the diary of an artist who had sailed 
across the Caribbean in a small boat. A sen¬ 
tence, a cry, almost, had suddenly shot out 
from these pages. “Life is keen beauty!” He 
visualized the contents of New York office 
176 





COMMENCEMENT 


177 

buildings sailing across the Caribbean in in¬ 
numerable small boats. He smiled. Life is 
keen ugliness, except for the exception now and 
again. It exists for no purpose except the 
barter of the world’s resources—selling and 
buying, shops and customers. 

Miss Rossby returned to the office. As she 
walked toward her desk her fingers were busy 
tucking loose strands of hair beneath her hat. 
She picked up her handbag without seeming to 
notice Gregory and turned to the door. 

Gregory stood up. ‘‘I-” he began, 

hastily. 

Miss Rossby looked back. 

‘Tve been waiting here because I had some¬ 
thing to say to you, but I can’t seem to think 
of any way to express myself—that is, without 
sounding silly.” 

“You’re not asking me to marry you, are 
you^?” She smiled at his discomposure. 

He laughed nervously. “I’ve been worrying 
about what I said to you the other day—^yes¬ 
terday. I don’t know yet how I ever happened 
to make such a stupid remark. I can hear it 
yet, and I feel silly whenever I think of it, 
which is often.” 

“Oh yes, I remember—about the playmate. 
I’d practically forgotten. After all, I didn’t 
think you were serious.” 

“I was afraid you—^you’d think I was the 
sort of person who made a habit of saying such 



COMMENCEMENT 


178 

things.” He ran his fingers through his hair. 
“It was such a stupid remark to make. As soon 
as rd said it I realized what an ass I’d made of 
myself. I don’t know why-” 

“Don’t worry about it. I really can’t 
classify you as one of the wolves who follow 
the poor working girl about.” Miss Rossby 
laughed and half turned toward the door. As 
Gregory crossed the room toward the hat rack, 
she spoke again. “And to show you that you’re 
entirely reinstated in my confidence, I’ll wait 
for you to go down in the elevator with me, if 
you’re going home now.” 

Gregory seized his hat and stepped swiftly 
toward the door. Without speaking, they 
walked down the hall and, after a short wait, 
entered an elevator. Once, during the twelve- 
flight drop to the ground floor, their eyes met. 
Each smiled understandingly. The iron gates 
clattered open and they stepped out into the 
marble lobby. Gregory felt that the time had 
come when he must say something; too much 
silence might seem even more stupid than im¬ 
pertinence. Miss Rossby forestalled his re¬ 
solve. 

“You passed the test very creditably,” she 
said, looking at him appraisingly. “Hereafter 
I shall feel perfectly safe riding in elevators 
with you.” 

Gregory laughed, “I’m paying for that 
silly remark. I feel terribly self-conscious 



COMMENCEMENT 


179 

when I’m with you now.” Gregory stuffed his 
hands into his trousers pockets. “You know, 
if I weren’t afraid I’d arouse your suspicions all 
over again, I’d suggest that we eat dinner to¬ 
gether to-night.” 

“It’s too bad you can’t suggest it, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, I’d really like to.” 

“But perhaps it’s just as well you can’t. 
Stenographers are never invited out to dinnet 
except for one purpose, and so, of course, I 
should have to refuse, unless you were to tell 
me of the beautiful clothes and automobiles 
that would be mine if I were to go with you. 
And besides, I shouldn’t care to eat in a private 
dining room. I like to watch people while I’m 
eating.” 

“But think, if you go with me, you might 
reform me. Seeing how innocent and sweet 
you were, I should resolve to lead a better life. 
I should probably leave the private dining 
room a better man.” 

They had left the office building and were 
strolling slowly along the street. Gregory no¬ 
ticed, after they had walked several steps, that 
he was not going in his usual direction. He 
said nothing. He did not want to leave Miss 
Rossby any sooner than he had to. 

“Well, where are you going to take me to 
eat?” 

Gregory stopped suddenly and stared at her. 


COMMENCEMENT 


180 

A man who had been walking close behind 
collided with Gregory and cursed irritably. 

“You should have apologized/’ she said, as 
the man passed on. “You almost knocked his 
hat off.” 

“Do you really mean that you’ll go to din¬ 
ner with me^” 

Miss Rossby smiled. 

“Come.” He took her arm and led her off 
hurriedly down the street. “I must get you 
into a restaurant before you change youi* 
mind.” 

“But we can’t eat yet. It’s too early. Let’s 
walk somewhere first.” 

“You’re sure you won’t think it over and 
change your mind if we do?” 

“I promise. Where shall we go?” 

“Oh, I don’t care. Let’s go straight ahead 
and never mind the destination.” 

They crossed Sixth Avenue and continued 
west, threading their way through the crowds 
of people just released from the long rows of ^ 
office buildings. They walked zestfully and, 
although their conversation was ragged and 
tentative, they seemed to enjoy it as if it were 
some new and fascinating game. Gregory’s 
had become a keen, pointed existence. He: 
watched a crinkly tuft of Miss Rossby’s red 
hair and the long sweep of her dark eyebrows. 

A flow of reckless courage invigorated his 
thoughts. He lit a cigarette and arranged his 


COMMENCEMENT i8i 

tie, wishing that he had not worn an old and 
wrinkled suit to-day. 

“I always like this time of day best of all,” 
he said. “Work is over, and you're free to do 
anything you want—to go anywhere you please 
and think about something besides hotels and 
things.” 

“You can’t go very far before nine o’clock to¬ 
morrow morning. Or don’t you want to go far 
away?” 

“Oh yes, but this is an approach to freedom, 
anyway.” 

“Do you make the most of it every night? 
I imagine you starting off as soon as you leave 
the office—the Bronx one night, Newark the 
next, and so on.” 

“No.” Gregory smiled. “As a matter of 
fact, this is the first time I ever have, I guess. 
But, anyway, I always feel free at this time of 
day, and it’s only when I don’t feel that way 
that I really want to go away.” 

“You wouldn’t make a very good husband.” 

“Perhaps I wouldn’t.” Gregory thought 
with considerable complacency of this phase of 
the matter. 

“We don’t seem to have chosen a particularly 
pleasant place for our walk,” observed Miss 
Rossby, after a short silence. 

Gregory noticed for the first time a group 
of gigantic gas tanks which loomed up at a 
short distance farther along the street. “I 


i82 commencement 

never thought about that. If you mind, we’ll 
turn back.” 

“No, it’s rather fun. I’ve never been over 
here before.” 

“Ugly city, isn’t it*?” 

“I guess so. I’ve never seen any others, so I 
can’t make comparisons.” 

“But still, it is ugly—hideous,” insisted 
Gregory. 

“I can’t think of any beautiful place I’d 
rather live in.” 

“Oh, I can! I’d much prefer to live out in 
the country somewhere. I often think I’d like 
to be a farmer. I’m not terribly anxious to 
make a lot of money.” 

“You wouldn’t if you became a farmer, and 
in a few years you’d hate the sight of the coun¬ 
try. Have you ever lived on a farm*?” 

“No.” 

“I have. I was born on one and lived there 
until I was eighteen. My father and mother 
and brother and two sisters still do. I expect 
to go and visit them now in a few weeks. I’ll 
hear about how bad some sort of bug is this 
year, or that it’s rained too much or too little, 
and I’ll get so fed up with the country that I’ll 
wish I never had to look at it again. And then, 
when I get back. I’ll remember that I never 
noticed whether it was beautiful or not. When 
I go somewhere to see the beauties of nature, I 
stay near New York so that I can get back 
quickly when I want to.” 


COMMENCEMENT 183 

‘1 see what you mean, but I get so sick of 
New York. Nobody has time to do anything 
except make money and keep as busy as pos¬ 
sible. I dread the thought of having to spend 
my life in a long succession of subway rides 
and dull work in an office.” 

“Well, the country hasn’t anything to do 
with that. It’s just as easy not to make money 
here as it is in the country—you don’t have to 
work as hard at it here as you do there.” 

“I remember, coming back from college, out 
of the car window I saw a red house tucked 
into a clump of green trees. I’ve been thinking 
about that place ever since.” 

“That’s the only thing to do—think about 
it. It was probably a barn, anyway. No self- 
respecting farmer would paint his house red.” 

They stopped and looked across the avenue 
before them at a wall of freight sheds that 
marked the river bank. Nowhere could they 
see any water. Above the hip-roofs of the 
sheds drifted fragments of smoke. The drone 
of a whistle echoed against the buildings along 
the waterfront. An urchin called out a nasty 
epithet and hurled a stone down the street. 

“Well, we can’t get any farther this way.” 

“Let’s walk up a way—^unless you’d rather 
not,” suggested Gregory. 

“No, it’s lots of fun. I really like this walk. 
You probably think me very unsympathetic, 
though.” 


COMMENCEMENT 


184 

“No, why should I?” 

“The way I made fun of your red house. 
I can’t help it. I’d probably like the country 
and dream about it as you do, if my experience 
there hadn’t been so unpleasant.” 

“Oh, I don’t mind your making fun. You’re 
right, of course, only—I don’t know—I’m dis¬ 
satisfied with most everything. I don’t know 
why.” 

“I’m always very practical.” 

“Are you^? You don’t seem to me to be that 
way.” 

“I can’t see that you have any reason to 
think otherwise. What have I done that’s un¬ 
practical 

“Well, taking this walk with me and plan¬ 
ning to take dinner with me afterward.” 

“Nothing unpractical about that, as far as 
I can see. I need exercise, and it’s much bet¬ 
ter for one’s digestion, they say, not to eat 
alone. Anything else?” 

“I can’t think of anything just now, but I 
still don’t believe you are—very.” 

“That’s because you don’t like to think I 
am. Ask Mr. Blooker. Anyway, I’ll try not 
to be for a change. Let’s take that ferry there 
and go across to Weehawken. I’ve never been 
there before. Have you?” 

“No, come on.” 

They crossed the avenue and entered the 
crowded ferry house. People stood waiting 


COMMENCEMENT 185 

patiently for the wide doors to roll back. They 
read newspapers or magazines and yawned 
lazily. Two meretricious girls near the door 
laughed sharply. Newspapers rattled as they 
were lowered or drawn aside to disclose disap¬ 
proving eyes. Looking at the people about 
him, Gregory identified his present elation 
with that of holidays, of unusual events. He 
had swerved out of the rut. Those about him 
had not, and the contrast was invigorating. 
Leonora was far off and strange; she was in 
that other sphere of routine. There were no 
twinges of conscience. Perhaps that proved he 
did not really love Leonora. This was the first 
time he had ever been conscious of the sugges¬ 
tion, yet it did not seem new or startling. . . . 

They stood on the forward lip of the ferry¬ 
boat and watched it plow through the currents 
of oily refuse and intermittent paths of 
purplish-blue water. The sun hung above 
the Palisades, and Gregory shaded his eyes 
to study the confusion of roofs huddled be¬ 
tween the precipice and the ferry house. A 
white, high-powered steam yacht cut noise¬ 
lessly across the bow of the ferry. The pas¬ 
sengers gazed after it hungrily, cynically, or 
stupidly. On the deck of the yacht stood a 
man in a blue coat and duck trousers—like 
the hero of one of Aunt Annie’s favorite novels, 
thought Gregory. 


i86 COMMENCEMENT 

“Would you like to have a yacht asked 
Miss Rossby. 

He turned and looked into her eyes. An af¬ 
firmative reply rose unconsidered to his lips. 
He hesitated, remembering their conversation. 
“Not particularly.” 

She laughed and turned away. 

He considered his reply. There was reaily 
something in the idea, something new and com¬ 
forting. A complete renunciation of ideals 
which he had tried to grasp would at least leave 
a solid, reliable footing. Leonora, Mr. 
Blooker's good opinion, his father’s approval 
would go, were he even to mention such re¬ 
nunciation. Only an artist, some one whose 
work could create a visionary world, could do 
that. 

“Brace yourself,” he said. “We’re going to 
bump.” 

The boat thudded against the piles of the 
ferry slip and careened slightly. Gregory 
grasped Miss Rossby’s arm to steady her, and 
then, as the boat righted itself, he relaxed his 
hold. He had abruptly become aware of the 
firm, roimd flesh beneath her silky sleeve. It 
was easier to divorce her from the office, from 
her routine of efficiency, than he had imagined. 

They followed the crowd up the dusty 
way to the foot of the Palisades. There they 
stopped dubiously and contemplated a long 
flight of steps leading to the top. 


COMMENCEMENT 


187 

‘‘Well, we took the walk for exercise/’ said 
Gregory, “so we might as well make the most 
of it. Come on.” 

Gregory’s knees became soft and watery. 
He could feel his heart thumping. He looked 
up. “Only—one—more—flight.” He took 
Miss Rossby’s arm and pushed it weakly up¬ 
ward. “There!” He released her arm be¬ 
cause he was too weak to hold it longer. They 
sank upon a wooden bench at the top of the 
stairs. They were both panting, and Gregory 
found himself trying to keep pace with her 
breathing, which was not quite as rapid as his 
own. 

As if the suggestion had been spoken, they 
both turned. The sun rays struck directly 
over their shoulders at the jagged skyline of 
Manhattan. Gregory realized that he was 
tired, physically and mentally tired. The 
smoky, confused view depressed him. His ex¬ 
istence was lost in a cubby-hole tucked away in 
one of the sunless alleys across the river. In 
another cubby-hole was Leonora. And his am¬ 
bition in life had been to share the same cubby¬ 
hole with her. Had been. Why was it that he 
instinctively thought of her now as some one 
back there in the past? Nothing had hap¬ 
pened; there had been no upheaval. Perhaps, 
once he was back there, lost in the infinite 
alleys of the city, the past would connect logi- 


i88 


COMMENCEMENT 


cally with the future. This detachment was 
unaccountable. 

He turned to watch Miss Rossby’s blue eyes 
as they followed the course of a boat down the 
river. “You're tired, aren’t you?” he asked, 
studying her long, flexible lips. 

“Yes, a little.” She did not look at him. 
“You seem to be, too. We lost our gaiety 
climbing the stairs. I feel sort of lonesome.” 

“I do, too. I wonder why.” 

There was no answer. They remained star¬ 
ing across the river. Behind them the gable of 
a house stood black against the molten sun. 
A ferryboat cut a white, curving path across 
the gray water. Leonora was eating dinner 
now. He wondered what expression domi¬ 
nated her face. His father was probably say¬ 
ing: “Well, I guess Gregory isn’t coming 
home for dinner to-night.” He conceived a 
sudden desire to hurry back across the river and 
hide himself beneath that jumbled sky line— 
to work, work and forget everything. He re¬ 
membered Mr. Frail gazing at the dark sky 
and speaking measuredly, thoughtfully. 

“ ‘ Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; 

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 

Where youth grows pale, and specter-thin, and 
dies.’ ” 

He stared across the river. 

“Come, let’s go back.” Miss Rossby spoke 
in an exaggeratedly matter-of-fact tone. 


COMMENCEMENT 189 

“What’s the matter with us?” asked Greg¬ 
ory, without moving. 

“Is there anything?” 

“There seems to be. We were quite light¬ 
hearted and gay when we started off.” He 
stood up and thrust his hands into his pockets. 
“Yes, there is something. I don’t know what 
it is, though. I feel as if something were going 
to happen. I’ve been feeling that way a lot 
lately. I can’t drift along as I’m drifting 
now.” 

“I didn’t know you were drifting.” There 
was little interest in her voice. The words 
v/ere obviously prompted by a feeling that she 
must say something. 

“There doesn’t seem to be any point to any¬ 
thing. You’ll never take another walk with 
me, I’m afraid.” 

Miss Rossby made no reply. She sat gazing 
down the river. 

“Perhaps Pm weak, or unfit, or something. 
I often wonder about it. I’m afraid of that 
street over there”—he jerked his finger toward 
the sky line—“when I stop to think about it. 
Walking along toward the office in the morn¬ 
ing, I sometimes turn and take a few steps in 
the other direction, just to show that I have 
the power to do it—or weakness. Oh, I’ll get 
used to it, I suppose. Everyone has to—or 
starve.” 

“I find working rather fun.” 


COMMENCEMENT 


igo 

“You don’t have the future hanging over 
your head, though. You’re not bound to it 
forever.” 

“I suppose some day I’ll take up dish¬ 
washing instead.” 

The remark clipped the thread of Gregory’s 
plaint. The idea spread through his thoughts 
that his trouble was merely weakness. He 
was increasingly ashamed that he had spoken 
of his troubles so unreservedly. Such feelings 
as his were to be suppressed, to be driven se¬ 
cretly from his consciousness by bold words and 
willful energy. He could hear Leonora’s 
mother crying, “I’m missing everything— 
everything but dirty, greasy dishes and dusty 
floors.” After all, how silly were his snivel- 
ings—that was the word—snivelings. 

“Well, let’s go,” he said, turning abruptly. 

Miss Rossby stood up. “I’m afraid I 
haven’t been very sympathetic,” she said, smil¬ 
ing faintly. 

“Sympathy is exactly what is bad for me. I 
have too much for myself. Oh, I’ll get over it.” 
He tried to speak lightly. “Why are you 
smiling*? Do you think it’s futile for me to 
try*?” 

Miss Rossby laughed aloud. “Come, let’s 
go. I wouldn’t dare tell you.” 

“Why^ Please tell me.” 

“Will you promise not to be angry*?” 

“Yes.” 


COMMENCEMENT 


191 

“Well, I was trying to imagine you just now 
as saying, Tm an awfully nice little play¬ 
mate.’ ” 

Gregory’s cheeks reddened. 

“You promised not to get angry.” 

“Oh, I’m not, only- I wish I were the 

sort of person who could say things like that 
and get away with them.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t try it again if I were you. 
You don’t do it well.” 

They walked slowly, rhythmically down the 
many steps. Gregory noticed that under the 
shadow of the cliff it was already twilight. 
Miss Rossby’s face was pale and clear-cut. 
He took her arm and nervously retained his 
uncertain hold upon it. They walked across 
a landing between two flights of steps. Greg¬ 
ory turned toward her, and briefly their eyes 
met. He was conscious of no decisions, of no 
contingencies. She had looked away, but he 
was still peering into the shadows beneath her 
brow. He knew that, with each step they de¬ 
scended, he was pressing her arm more and 
more closely to his body; that his cheek was 
nearing hers. He moved deliberately and yet 
with the knowledge that it was not really by 
his own volition. There were no thoughts. 
The vividness of his exhilaration paralyzed 
them at their inception. 

“I love you. I love you . . .” How many 
times Gregory repeated these words he did not 



192 


COMMENCEMENT 


know. He gasped them, trying to force mean¬ 
ing into them, to stuff them with the palpable 
matter of his emotions. He was afraid to stop 
the reiteration. If he paused, she might speak. 
A word would drop him from passion to shame¬ 
ful self-consciousness. Somehow his lips 
reached hers. He did not know when he had 
stopped speaking. He felt the warmth of her 
mouth. He pressed his body against hers. 
She must speak now, of course; she must try 
to break away—to show her surprise, her dis¬ 
gust. But no, her lips were pressing firmly 
against his. Her fingertips were digging into 
his arm. She moved, and he felt an arm en¬ 
circle his back. He could feel his desire driving 
tears into his eyes. . . . 

‘ 1 —I wonder how many people have passed 
us.” She laughed with a tinge of hysteria as 
she arranged her hat. 

“I don’t know. There was a trolley car— 
down there. I remember seeing the lights— 
through your hair. I—I love you.” 

“And I love you.” 

Gregory stared at her as if he could not 
quite make out what she had said. She re¬ 
turned his gaze and then impulsively leaned 
toward him and kissed him again. 

“You—oh, I don’t know what to say. I 
adore you. No, I want new—other words.” 

“Come, we must get something to eat and 


COMMENCEMENT 


m 

talk this all over. There’s a boat coming in 
now.” 

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, 
she started to run. She ran lithely, without 
effort. Gregory exerted himself to catch up 
with her, but, as he was almost at her side, he 
curbed his pace. He wanted to watch her. 
She was fresh, invigorating. The lightness he 
felt in his own stride seemed to have come from 
contact with her. Why were they running 
toward the ferry They no longer belonged 
back in the city. It was absurd that she should 
be Mr. Blooker’s stenographer. He spurted 
ahead and came up abreast of her. Before 
them a crowd was spreading from the door of 
the ferry house. They slowed to a walk. 

“I—” Gregory gasped for breath. “I 
can’t go on calling you Miss Rossby, and I 
haven’t the faintest idea what your first name 
is.” 

“I know yours, Gregory.” 

He took her arm. “That doesn’t help me.” 

“Well, it’s a very unromantic name. It’s 
Georgia.” 

They sat in the grill room of the Trojan 
Hotel. Georgia had demurred at first when 
Gregory had suggested going there, but he had 
insisted that the occasion demanded the great¬ 
est possible luxury and outlay. He was re- 


COMMENCEMENT 


194 

lieved, once they were seated at the table, to 
observe that she seemed quite unconcerned over 
the fact that the other women in the room were 
far more elaborately dressed than she. After 
they had ordered their food, she leaned her el¬ 
bows upon the table and looked contem¬ 
platively at him. 

“Gregory, we have been very foolish.” 

“What about?’ 

“You know. Three hours ago I didn’t exist 
for you, except as one of the stenographers in 
the office.” 

“You’ve never been merely that—since the 
first day I saw you.” 

“It’s awfully nice of you to say that, but you 
know that, even though you may have liked 
me before, the crisis was reached in about 
thirty seconds.” 

“Well, I don’t see that that matters.” 

“No, it was a perfectly good crisis, but still 

- After all, neither one of us has thought 

about what it all means yet. We’re going to 
do a lot of thinking during the next few days, 
and an awful crash may follow.” 

“Not for me.” 

“We’ll see. But while we’re together, we’re 
going to ignore what’s happened, for a week 
or so, anyway.” 

“But-” 

“Oh, you have to protest, whether you feel 
that you want to or not. My feelings would 




COMMENCEMENT 


19? 

be hurt if you didn’t, but I’m serious in what 
I say. For a few weeks at least you must 
think of me as Mr. Blooker’s secretary, and I 
shall consider you merely as Gregory Thrumm, 
the creator of the blah-blah bird.” 

“Anything but that. Sometimes, when I 
think about it, it seems to me that it was that 
advertisement that began my discontent. No 
it really didn’t start then, but every time I 
try to think things out and come to some de¬ 
cision about what I’m aiming at, I see that ugly 
beast leering at me. I wonder whether every¬ 
one who creates something ugly suffers the same 
punishment. That’s a silly idea, of course.” 
He drew patterns on the tablecloth with his 
thumb nail. “If you think it over you—you’ll 
decide you made a mistake.” 

“Well,” said Georgia, smiling quizzically, 
“it’s better to find out now than later, isn’t it^” 

“I- No, it isn’t. Believing that you 

loved me, even if it was only for a few weeks, 
would be better than waiting in doubt and dis¬ 
covering that you’d changed your mind.” 

“As a matter of fact. I’m quite convinced 
that you are the one who will change his mind.” 

Gregory smiled disdainfully. “You haven’t 
any reason for loving me. You know nothing 
in my favor. I’m not making good at the office. 
I’m headed toward failure. It’ll be years be¬ 
fore I can make enough to support a wife in 



COMMENCEMENT 


196 

comfort. I don’t really want to make money.” 
He looked steadily into her eyes. ‘If I had 
enough money to live on, I wouldn’t work 
again.” 

“I must admit you don’t sound like an 
embryo millionaire.” 

“It’s only fair that I should warn you. I— 
You may think I don’t love you very much, 
that, if I did, I would want to work hard and 
all that sort of thing, but if I were the kind 
that’s on the road toward a fortune, I couldn’t 
love you as I do now. I want you to know. 
I—” Should he tell her of his engagement 
to Leonora^ He would see Leonora immedi¬ 
ately, of course, and break the engagement. 
But he had resolved to be frank. He realized 
that his gaze had dropped from Georgia’s. 
The pleasure of fearlessness had forsaken him. 
He glanced up. Georgia was watching him. 
“You’re going to regret all this,” he said. “But 
I’m going to be frank.” His eyes fixed on hers 
again. “I’m engaged to be married to—to 
some one else.” 

“I wondered whether you’d tell me.” 

“You wondered! How did you know 
“You confided in Spelfer, and he told me 
about it as if it were a good joke. It seems to 
have been.” 

“But you mustn’t think I’m like that.” 
Gregory sought words, phrases to give plausi¬ 
bility to his protestations of constancy. 


COMMENCEMENT 


197 

“I— Well, Tm not going to say anything 
about—her. It isn’t her fault. We didn’t get 
along well together. I’m not the sort of person 
to make her happy.” 

''How do you know that you can make me 
happy T’ 

Gregory smiled ruefully. "I don’t. But 
there doesn’t seem to be the same difference. 
She—she sort of plans everything—there’s 
nothing spontaneous with her. Oh, it’s not her 
fault. We’re different.” 

"Did you suspect all this when you first 
asked her to marry you?” 

"No, of course not.” 

"And you don’t expect it now with me, do 
you?” 

"But I know it isn’t like that. It’s all dif¬ 
ferent. Oh, I can’t argue about it—find rea¬ 
sons. I love you.” 

"I love you,” she replied frankly. 

"But I don’t see why you should. I’m 


"Why go on trying to convince me that I 
can’t be in love with you, Gregory? You’ve 
done very well, but it hasn’t had any effect. 
You’ve already given me your best arguments, 
I’m sure.” 

"Then why do you?” he pleaded. 

"I haven’t any idea.” 

"No, there couldn’t be any reason—any 
logical one.” He watched the waiter arrang- 



COMMENCEMENT 


198 

ing the food on the table. ''But if you knew I 
was already engaged, how did all this ever, 
happen?” 

"Why ask me to reason about a thing which 
in itself isn’t reasonable? Let’s eat.” 

When Gregory left Georgia at her door that 
evening, he wondered, for the first time, why it 
was that he had tried so hard to convince her 
that she could not love him, that it was silly 
for her even to make the attempt. During the 
entire evening he had spoken hardly one cheer¬ 
ful, care-free phrase. He could not reconcile 
the contrast between the poignancy of his emo¬ 
tion when he had first reached toward her lips, 
and his later collapse into despondency. He 
tried to recall that emotion. It was faint; 
there was a tinge of sadness in it. He would 
never marry Georgia Rossby. That sentence, 
fully formed in his thoughts, was sharply cut, 
sane; it bore the conviction of an established 
fact. With the lapse of the two weeks she had 
insisted on, would come the complete disin¬ 
tegration of her madness. It was madness, or 
otherwise her love was unaccountable. Failure. 
He reiterated that word. It held a connotation 
of sureness, of strength, even. She had said: 
"At least you aren’t raising false hopes.” 
That was the fact that held comfort. There 
were no hopes. It would have been different, 
perhaps, if she had invited him in, instead of 
bidding him good night at the door. The emo- 


COMMENCEMENT 


199 

tion would have welled up again to the touch 
of her lips. He would have promised, hoped 
anything. She had seemed to realize that. 
“We’re beautifully gloomy and sensible now, 
so let’s not spoil it.” She had pressed his hand 
and left without another word. 

Loneliness settled heavily upon him. He 
could make no one happy, not even himself. 
He would cut himself off from companionship, 
love, everything. He was one of the unfit who 
could not survive, who must sink deeper and 
deeper under the weight of despair. Two 
figures in the shadow of a vestibule drew 
quickly apart as he passed. The pullulating 
city. He started as a lean black cat sprang 
from a garbage pail and whisked noiselessly 
across the street. When he reached the Drive, 
he crossed the roadway so that he might 
be able to look out upon the river. A 
string of lights drifted silently, slowly through 
the darkness. The faint moan of a whistle 
rose and fell. The staccato reports of a motor 
drove through and engulfed the faraway sounds. 

He dreamed of loneliness, of enduring, un¬ 
requited affections. His thoughts were of dis¬ 
tance and intervening space. He repeated half 
consciously to himself, “far, far, far . . 


CHAPTER SEVEN 


Gregory listened to the clickety-click of the 
typewriter behind him. He imagined 
Georgia’s fingers striking down against the key¬ 
board. He tried to force himself to a belief 
that those fingers had only last evening grasped 
eagerly at his arm. When she had entered the 
office, Georgia had passed him with a brief 
good morning. He had searched eagerly but 
in vain for any recognition of the fact that he 
was more to her than merely the copy writer 
who sat at the desk in front of hers. Probably 
she was beginning to think more calmly of last 
night’s aberration. Nothing would ever come 
of it. He could imagine the words she would 
say: “I don’t think we could ever really be 
happy together, and it’s better we should rec¬ 
ognize that fact now.” But no matter what 
might be the outcome of his love for Georgia, 
to-night he must speak those identical words to 
Leonora. It would all be over quickly, and she 
would soon forget. But this repeated attempt 
at self-comfort held no conviction. 

Beside him on the desk was his first writing 
of the Trojan Hotel booklet. He had no faith 
in it. Presented against the heaving back- 

200 





COMMENCEMENT 


201 


ground of his thoughts, the words seemed 
strange and cold. 

The door to Mr. Blooker’s office opened. 
Gregory looked nervously up. Miss Branford, 
the girl in charge of the files, stepped haughtily 
out of the private office and slammed the door 
behind her. Wonderingly, Gregory scruti¬ 
nized her. There was something odd about her 
appearance, but he could not determine just 
what it was. Certainly she had been repri¬ 
manded for something—^perhaps dismissed— 
for her face was unusually white, and, fur¬ 
thermore, employees in the office were not in 
the habit of slamming Mr. Blooker’s door. A 
chair behind him squeaked loudly, and Georgia 
hurried by to Miss Branford’s desk. Gregory 
heard a confused jumble of whispers and some¬ 
thing which sounded like a sniffle. The sound 
came again and again, and he saw Miss Bran¬ 
ford put her handkerchief to her eyes. 

Gregory recalled rumors he had heard from 
various people in the office concerning Mr. 
Blooker’s temper; that once Mr. Blooker’s 
anger or displeasure was aroused, no one’s po¬ 
sition was safe. Miss Branford had always 
seemed to be an efficient clerk. Perhaps Mr. 
Blooker would decide that he wanted to see 
the Trojan Hotel booklet. Gregory forced 
his mind to his work. 

He looked up as Georgia neared his desk. 

“It’s disgusting!” Her eyes were narrow 


202 


COMMENCEMENT 


and animated. ‘'Miss Branford has been fired 
—told to get out right away.” 

“Why?” 

“Because she’s had her hair bobbed.” 

Gregory identified the strangeness he had 
noticed in Miss Branford’s appearance with 
this explanation. “But why should she be 
fired for that?” 

“He objects to it.” She nodded in the di¬ 
rection of the private office. “When I first 
came here, he told me he would not employ 
office girls who had bobbed hair, or who used 
make-up or anything like that. He forgot to 
tell Miss Branford, so she says. She had her 
hair cut last night, and this morning he told 
her to leave the office immediately. He makes 
me sick.” 

“But why should he mind?” 

“Ask him. I don’t know. He thinks it’s a 
sign of light-mindedness. And now she’ll 
have a hard time finding more work. He won’t 
recommend her, or, if he does, he’ll say some¬ 
thing nasty about the sort of young girl who 
bobs her hair. Oh, it’s so stupid!” 

“He never told her, you say?” 

“That’s what she says. But what if he did? 
What right has he to tell us what we shall do 
or what we shan’t do? It doesn’t concern our 
work. Oh, I dread going in and taking dicta¬ 
tion. I’d like to tell him what I think.” 

A faint buzzing sounded from her desk. 


COMMENCEMENT 


203 

“There I go now. He probably thinks I or 
any of the other girls would be afraid to do 
anything or tell him what we think of him. 
I’ve half a mind to do it.” 

As she walked away, Gregory associated in 
his mind a certain amount of temper with her 
red hair. It would not be pleasant, he decided, 
to quarrel with Georgia or to risk her anger. 
He must continue with his work. The booklet 
should have been finished a day ago. 

Many of us do not realize what the past half 
century has ,accomplished for us in the way of con¬ 
veniences and comfort. As you stand in any part of 
the Trojan Hotel, look about you. How many of the 
comfort-producing appliances which you see existed 
fifty years ago ? Things which are now neces¬ 
sities . . • 

Gregory walked briskly back from luncheon. 
He had held fast to his decision to work hard, 
and his persistence generated strength. He 
hung his hat precisely upon the rack and crossed 
to his desk. The Trojan Hotel booklet was 
practically completed. After one more read¬ 
ing he would give it to Georgia for a final typ¬ 
ing. He himself felt convinced of the sterling 
worth of the vast hotel. His work was digni¬ 
fied, a solid, truthful resume of the merits of a 
steel and concrete hotel; it was not mere 
“catchy” advertising. It was in keeping with 
the calm, firm fagade of the building. 


COMMENCEMENT 


204 

Miss Branford’s desk was bare. It was a 
pity, but still, Mr. Blooker had a perfect right 
to make his own rules. Generally he seemed a 
kindly man—firm, of course, but kind-hearted. 
Certainly no one could admire a man who was 
not resolute. Strange that Georgia had not yet 
returned from luncheon. She had been out 
nearly two hours. 

Four stories underground are the batteries of fur¬ 
naces that heat the Trojan Hotel. A warm room 
has become a matter of course to-day, but did you 
ever stop to consider . . . 

‘Well, how do you like it?” 

“Like what? Why—why did you do it?” 

“Oh, everyone is wearing bobbed hair these 
days.” Georgia smiled, but the thin line of her 
lips was not broken. “I hope you’ll like your 
new stenographer. Maybe you’ll become a 
playmate of hers.” 

“But it’s so foolish!” exclaimed Gregory, 
ignoring her sally. “You know what will hap¬ 
pen. It won’t accomplish anything.” 

“I know that, but I’m not a slave. It’s 
worth losing the job just to show Mr. Blooker 
I’m not cowed.” 

Gregory glanced past Georgia and saw that 
she was being observed by the entire office force. 
A group of three stenographers in the comer 
were whispering excitedly. 


COMMENCEMENT 205 

“Well, you haven’t told me whether you like 
it or not yet.” 

—yes, I like it. It curls up nicely at the 
bottom. I always have admired your hair.” 

She smiled appreciatively. “You’re sure you 
don’t like it less, now that there’s less of it?’ 

“I think it looks very well.” 

“Please don’t think me too foolish. I’m 
scared to death, but I don’t care.” She turned 
to her desk. 

Gregory gazed out of the window at the rows 
of windows opposite. Though he scarcely 
realized it, he was listening intently for a faint 
buzzing sound. Leonora would never have 
done such a thing. He doubted whether he 
himself would have had the courage Georgia 
had shown. Therefore he admired it. He 
wondered whether there wasn’t something 
he could do to show that he supported her. Was 
there anything that was forbidden to the men 
in the officeSmoking between nine and five. 
He reached toward his cigarette case. It would 
be silly. That was different, anyway. Bobbed 
hair didn’t interfere with work or with any¬ 
one’s comfort. Still, just to show his attitude. 
... He took a cigarette from his case and 
rolled it between his fingers. He moistened his 
lips and stared out of the window. It wasn’t 
exactly that he was afraid. Everyone in the 
office would undoubtedly think him silly. But 
just to show ... 


2o6 


COMMENCEMENT 


“Thrumm, will you step into my office, 
please*?” 

Gregory started violently and dropped the 
unlit cigarette. Mr. Blooker, the whole office 
force, was looking at him. Mr. Blooker’s eyes 
were sharp and threatening. He stepped into 
his office, leaving the door ajar. Gregory 
pressed his finger tips against the cool edge of 
the desk and stood up. He wondered whether 
he would be able to walk across the room with¬ 
out appearing as foolish as he felt. It was im¬ 
possible to force his arms to swing naturally. 
They felt stiff. Though he did not look at 
them he knew that his sleeves were badly 
wrinkled and looked ungainly. He passed into 
the office and closed the door carefully behind 
him. 

“Well, Thrumm, it’s all over.” Mr. Blooker 
was standing behind his desk, his arms folded 
Napoleonically. He smiled grimly. “I made 
a mistake and I admit it frankly. You haven’t 
got the stuff in you to make good. I expressly 
told you I didn’t want people mooning around 
this office, and here I come and find you gazing 
vacantly out of the window. How long each 
day do you sit there doing nothing? It may be, 
of course, that I’ve happened to see you the only 
times you were sitting like that, but such coinci¬ 
dences are rare.” 

He leaned across his desk, his knuckles rest¬ 
ing upon the white blotting pad. “Damn it! 


COMMENCEMENT 


207 


man, buck up! You’ll get fired everywhere 
you go unless you snap out of it. You know as 
well as I do that you haven’t been doing your 
work. It’s weeks since you’ve written a lin^ 
we could use. It’s too late now. I’m not going 
to offer you another chance. You may have 
gathered from what I’ve said that you’re fired. 
And, damn it all! it ought to do you good. It 
may help you to realize that you’ve graduated 
from college, that you’re out in the world, and 
that the days are past when you can fake and 
get away with it very long.” He shrugged his 
shoulders. “Delby’ll give you two weeks’ 
salary. I want you to clear out right away. 
It’s bad business, I find, keeping discharged em¬ 
ployees around the office.” 

“I’ve practically completed the Trojan Hotel 
booklet.” Gregory tried to talk clearly and 
fearlessly. “Do you want what I’ve done?” 

“Is it any good?” 

“Why, I--” 

“No, I don’t want it. If you can’t recom¬ 
mend it without hesitating, I don’t know why I 
should waste time on it.” 

Gregory turned and started toward the door. 
“Thrumm.” 

Gregory turned and saw that Mr. Blooker 
had come around to the front of his desk, and 
that he held his hand extended. 

“Shake hands, Thrumm. After all, I think 
you may make good somewhere yet. I don’t 



2o8 


COMMENCEMENT 


know why I think so. I haven’t any reason.” 

Gregory’s hand was clasped warmly and 
firmly. 

“You’ve needed a bad shaking up. Some 
day, when you’ve learned how to work, come 
back and see me. Good-by.” 

“Good-by, Mr. Blooker. I’ve made a mess 
of things, I Imow.” He shrugged his shoulders. 
“Thank you very much.” 

Gregory carefully arranged the sheets of 
paper on his desk. He did it slowly, mechanic¬ 
ally, seeking to realize just what had happened. 
The clicking of typewriters sounded strange 
and raucous. It was silly to avoid Georgia’s 
eyes. He must tell her in a few minutes, of 
course. This, then, was the end. He turned to 
her desk. “I’ve been fired.” 

“You! Why?’ 

A sharp buzz reverberated against her desk. 
Her lips tightened. “Tell me about it later. 
I’ll go in and get mine now.” 

He stood watching Georgia until the door to 
Mr. Blooker’s office closed behind her. It 
would seem strange to be out in the street at 
such an hour on a business day. He pressed a 
paper-clip over the corner of the sheets com¬ 
prising the booklet and stuffed the bundle into 
his pocket. He sat down and sorted the con¬ 
tents of his desk. From time to time he listened 
for the sound of Mr. Blooker’s voice. He 
wondered that Georgia should be kept in there 


COMMENCEMENT 


209 


so long. He glanced at the clock. Three- 
thirty. Blooker was not a bad sort. He had 
been very kind and had taken a great deal of 
the sting out of his words. He was an efficient 
business man. There were not many who 
would double an employee’s salary the first day. 
Nor were there many such jobs as this one. 
Leonora. It was this that she had dreaded. 
Suppose they had married impulsively. . . . 

Delby, the cashier, entered Mr. Blooker’s 
office and immediately came out again. 
Gregory walked up to the aperture in the metal 
cage wherein Delby passed his days. 

“I suppose you’ve got some money for me.” 

Delby counted out one hundred and fifty dol¬ 
lars. “This week’s and two in advance. 
That’s right, isn’t it^” 

“Correct.” 

“Too bad. The boss is on a tear to-day. He 
raises hell when he gets excited. He seems to 
expect a guy to be perfect and never make any 
mistakes. I’d like to see him at my job a while. 
That’d make him dizzy, I guess.” 

Gregory walked away. He had been 
tempted to ask Delby what was happening to 
Georgia, but there was something in the 
cashier’s attitude that reminded Gregory of the 
whining of a little dog. He sat down at his 
desk and, without realizing the significance of 
his position, sat gazing out of the window. 

Georgia walked calmly to her desk. Her 


210 


COMMENCEMENT 


white cheeks showed distinct spots of color. 
Her eyes seemed to have lost much of the cer¬ 
tainty which they normally expressed. 

Fm fired.” 

“What did he say^” 

“I’ll tell you some other time. I’m to finish 
this letter before I go. Don’t wait for me. It 
would look strange for us both to walk out to¬ 
gether.” 

“I’ll wait for you downstairs, then.” 

“All right.” 

Gregory left the office without saying good- 
by to anyone. He knew he would be sympa¬ 
thized with if he did, and he dreaded that. 
Delby’s sympathy had grated upon him. He 
knew that Mr. Blooker had been right, and it 
annoyed him to hear the man reviled. 

He bought a package of cigarettes at the 
news-stand in the lobby and smoked, leaning 
up against the wall as he watched the elevator 
indicators. It occurred to him that now he 
would have time for writing. He had always 
thought of trying. The idea was flat and list¬ 
less. He wished that he might work hard with 
his hands. Off in the country somewhere he 
might find farm work. He had made a fool 
of himself in New York. The city itself 
seemed to hold a consciousness of his failure. 
Strange that being an idler, when everyone 


COMMENCEMENT 


211 


around was busy, should bring such a decided 
sense of discomfort. . . . 

Georgia stepped out of an elevator. With¬ 
out a word they left the building. 

‘'I suppose we’d better take another walk,” 
she said, without interest. “We won’t go out 
of New York this time, though. Let’s walk up 
Fifth Avenue.” 

“Well, tell me about it.” 

“Nothing much to tell, except that I’ve lost 
a perfectly good job.” 

“You got a little glory out of it, though. I 
was fired because I was no good.” 

“Next time I’ll pass up the glory.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“He was so decent about it that it took all 
the fun out of it. He looked at my hair and 
asked me why I’d done it. I told him, and he 
asked me why I hadn’t come in and told him 
what I thought, instead of going off and having 
my hair cut. He said that, of course, under 
the circumstances, he couldn’t keep me in the 
office. He had made the rule, and, moreover, 
it would be unfair to Miss Branford. He said 
he liked my work and that he would be sorry to 
lose me, and that, when it finally grew out, he 
would be very glad to take me back. He said, 
too, that it was also a rule in the office that em¬ 
ployees should not sing or whistle, and he asked 
me why I hadn’t broken that rule, since I didn’t 
wish to be cowed. Oh, I felt like a fool!” 


212 


COMMENCEMENT 


“But singing and whistling are hardly the 
same thing. Bobbed hair doesn’t interrupt peo¬ 
ple who are working.” 

“No, I know it. He said it wasn’t the 
bobbed hair he objected to so much as the type 
of person who did things like that. Now that 
I think of it, Miss Branford was a silly little 
fool. But she’s no worse than I am.” 

“He really isn’t a bad sort of person.” 

“Blooker? No, he’s better than the average. 
He annoys me, but he’s fair enough. Oh, it 
isn’t the job that’s upset me so; it’s the thought 
that I’ve made such a silly ass of myself. I’m 
always doing things like that.” 

“It’s probably your red hair. You may be 
calmer, now you’ve had some of it removed.” 

“I’d shave my head if I thought it would 
help. I wish I could stop thinking of how 
gullible I was. I swallowed everything that 
silly little fool said. She told me Mr. Blooker 
had made advances to her. It’s absurd, now 
that I think of it. She wanted sympathy. 
Well, I gave it to her. What did he say to 
you^” 

Gregory outlined his interview. “He was 
perfectly right. I wasn’t any good.” 

“What are you going to do now^” 

“I haven’t any idea.” 

“We’ll have to start all over again, won’t 
we?” 

“Yes.” The sound of that “we” was pleas- 


COMMENCEMENT 


213 

ant, caressing. “I don’t imagine you’ll want 
the rest of the two weeks before making your 
decision, though.” 

“Still as cheerful as ever, aren’t you?” 

“That isn’t an answer. Please tell me 
frankly what you really think.” 

“I asked for two weeks and I insist that you 
give them to me. You’ll have to, anyway. 
Now that I’ve lost my job, I’m going to take a 
little vacation and go home.” 

Gregory turned quickly toward her. 
“Home? How long will you be gone?” 

“I haven’t decided.” 

“But you’ll write, won’t you? You must 
write. Will you be back inside the two 
weeks?” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“Can’t we go out to dinner again to-night? 
I must see you again before you go.” 

“I thought you had something else to do 
to-night.” 

“What? Oh, but if you’re going away-” 

“Has your anxiety to break with number one 
diminished?” 

“No, but I want to see you. I can do that 
any time.” 

“Last night you were wishing you could do 
it immediately. I don’t ask you to, of course. 
It’s a matter for you to decide. There’s always 
the possibility that I may change my mind, so 
I can’t really ask you to burn your bridges.” 



COMMENCEMENT 


214 

Georgia spoke scornfully. Red spots were ap¬ 
parent in her cheeks. She looked directly ahead 
and unconsciously quickened her footsteps. 

Later, when he tried to reconstruct the situ¬ 
ation, Gregory could not quite determine how 
this quarrel had arisen. There seemed no ex¬ 
cuse—^no definite beginning, even. Of course 
they were both highly strung after the day’s 
excitement. Perhaps his anger was prompted 
by the idea that Georgia seemed willing to mag¬ 
nify his indecision. As he spoke he knew that 
the resentment in his words was quite patent. 
“Of course, if you feel that way about it, there 
can’t be much question as to what your answer 
will be.” 

“Oh, it’s always well not to act too hastily,” 
she retorted. “Suppose, for example, you had 
called her up last night, or you had gone there 
after you left me—I rather expected you 
would, by the way—we probably would have 
quarreled about something else, and then where 
would you have been^” 

“You seem to be using this as an opportunity 
for getting gracefully out of the results of last 
night’s foolishness.” 

“Foolishness?” She stopped. “This is as 
good a place to part as any, I suppose.” 

“As you say.” Gregory removed his hat and 
inwardly cursed himself because he could not 
keep his hand from trembling. 

“So generous of you to give me the pleasure- 


COMMENCEMENT 


215 

of deciding.” Her eyes were narrow and hard. 
“Good-by.” She turned and walked back down 
the Avenue. 

Gregory swallowed twice. He closed his 
lips firmly. He discovered that he was still 
holding his hat in his hand. He put it on 
hastily. Now and again he caught a glimpse 
of Georgia through the crowd. Memory of last 
night’s ecstasy struck him suddenly and vividly. 
The crowds jostled him, but he paid no atten¬ 
tion. Once, he started to follow Georgia, but 
the first steps discouraged him. Bitter, un¬ 
alloyed loneliness seized him. He turned and 
plodded blindly back up the Avenue. Not un¬ 
til now had he realized how completely he was 
in love with Georgia. 

Leonora went into the kitchen to discard her 
apron. Gregory walked across the living room 
and back again. A new chair caught his glance. 
He examined it. No, it was not new; it was an 
old one reupholstered and varnished. It was 
the chair that used to snap and groan every time 
anyone sat in it. Obviously it had been re¬ 
paired at home. The row of tacks around the 
edge was uneven, and, at the top, the stripes 
in the stuff with which it was covered did not 
quite meet. Gregory walked to the window 
and leaned out. 

He felt a deep pity for Leonora. They had 


COMMENCEMENT 


216 

spent delightful hours together—when he had 
held her close in his arms. But he could never 
have made her happy. Her brother was her 
ideal. What would Mr. Frail say? Ramble 
on, probably, about romance and food. There 
was really nothing but memories to hold them 
together. Yes, he was certain. Even without 
Georgia, Leonora could no longer hold him. 
Georgia. Color mounted to his cheeks. He 
could not think of her without a gnawing sense 
of shame. ‘‘So generous of you to give me the 
pleasure of deciding.” The words had bitten 
deep; their sting increased. The least he could 
do was to be frank and fearless with Leonora. 

He turned about. Leonora stood before the 
mirror. She was straightening her dark hair. 
She smiled at his reflection. When she saw 
that he did not smile back, but stood morosely 
watching her, she turned and faced him. Her 
hands were still at her hair, her elbows above 
her shoulders. He remembered taking her in 
his arms once as she stood thus. 

“What is it, Gregory?” 

“Oh-” No, no! he must not put it off. If 

only his heart would stop beating rapidly, so 
that he might take a deep breath. He looked 
down at the carpet. The green pattern writhed 
against the yellow background. “Leonora, this 
is awfully hard.” He moistened his lips. 

“You’ll hate me, I suppose. But-I don’t 

think we could ever really be happy together.” 




COMMENCEMENT 


217 

He spoke the words rapidly, in a short breath. 

The patterns in the carpet were dancing 
about now. 

‘Terhaps not.” 

The patterns settled back upon the carpet 
and remained immovable. He knew that 
Leonora's arms had dropped; that she was 
watching him. 

“Let’s sit down and talk this over,” she said, 
calmly. 

Gregory walked awkwardly to the Morris 
chair and sat down. He did not quite dare to 
look at Leonora. 

“I think you’re probably right, Gregory. 
I’ve thought about it, too,—often. I’ve almost 
spoken. We fight more and more and—well, 
we don’t look at things in the same way. I— 
There isn’t much to be said is there!?” Leonora 
stopped talking and picked sharply at the arm 
of her chair. 

“No, there isn’t. I-” 

“I think I admire you more now than I ever 
did before. I’ve always felt that if anyone 
said this it would be I.” 

He muttered something deprecatory about 
wasting whole lives. 

“Well, there doesn’t seem to be anything 
more to talk about.” 

“No.” He rose and stuck his fists into his 
hip pockets. “Maybe we could still be friends.” 

“Maybe—some day—not soon, though. I— 



2i8 


COMMENCEMENT 


I want to ask you one question. It will prob^ 
ably hurt your feelings, but that’s not very im¬ 
portant now, is it^? You haven’t lost your job 
or anything like that, have you*?” 

“Yes.” 

“To-day?’ 

“Yes.” 

“Good-by.” Leonora turned quickly and 
left the room. She walked erectly, her hands 
swinging at her sides. She held her head 
averted, but Gregory knew she was crying. 


Gregory leaned far out over the window 
ledge and gazed across the river at the 
Palisades. A bright, colorless moon hung 
above the water. The distant grumble of a 
whistle sounded far off and lonely. Below, a 
policeman’s heavy boots thumped against the 
sidewalk. 

There was no escaping this strange uneasi¬ 
ness which clung about him, mist-like. The 
future seemed to hang more imminent. Its un¬ 
certainty harbored nebulous threats. The un¬ 
known hovered upon the verge of consciousness. 
Leonora’s face was white and streaked with 
tears. Her dark hair was tangled and neg¬ 
lected. She, too, was oppressed by the time 
which should weave itself into the present. 
Georgia’s blue eyes were hard with a biting 
scorn. Her face was white; the delicate skin 


COMMENCEMENT 


2ig 

was drawn tautly from her red lips. She 
ignored the distraction of suggestive possibili¬ 
ties. Her hair was fluffy and unrestrained. 

High up above the river twinkled the lights 
of the amusement park. He watched them 
with dawning comprehension. The agglomera¬ 
tion of people about those lights were seeking 
to forget factories and shops and offices. The 
forgetting was difficult. It required dazzling 
lights, the swift thrill of speed, the noise of 
voices and laughter. A moment’s oblivion was 
the goal. There could be no permanent escape. 
Eventually he would find work. “You needed 
a lesson, son, I guess, and, as for your engage¬ 
ment, there are still plenty of fish in the sea.” 
The remark had annoyed him, but now it did 
not seem as unsympathetic as it had at first. 
There was something inevitably true in his 
father’s common sense. Well, the lesson had 
come. What would it teach 

Georgia, No, at least he must wait until he 
had worked out his own problems. He must 
harden himself—learn how to live. His free¬ 
dom was too negative. What would he do to¬ 
morrow and the next day and the day after 
that^ Eventually there would have to be some 
purpose, some definiteness. The art of living 
was involved. Could anyone quite master it? 

“I shall go right back to mother, you brute.” 


220 


COMMENCEMENT 


“Anything but that. I insist upon having 
my wife associate with nice people.’’ 

The audience rumbled with laughter. 
Gregory smiled wanly and reached in his pocket 
for a cigarette. 

“I’m sure I don’t know why I ever married 
such an execrable person.” The tall, robust 
blond placed her hands upon her hips and 
forced up her shoulders. 

“You never learned that word at home.” 
The dapper little man twirled his cane and 
pirouetted across the stage. 

The fifteen minutes of humorous insults 
were succeeded by a period of Oriental danc¬ 
ing, introducing Yashka of the lithe and un¬ 
dulating hips. Gregory stared appraisingly up 
at her. He imagined himself alone, except for 
Yashka who danced before him, writhing 
languorously and baring her white teeth. 
Oriental perfume, strident, throbbing music, 
the firm, supple body of a woman. He wove 
his romance, drawing out the soft strands 
slowly, whimsically. 

The daylight was glaring, unenchanting. 
His dream had left him dazed and only half 
conscious of the world beyond himself. Broad¬ 
way was crowded, and after a few steps he was 
jostled into irritability. He realized that, for 
no reason, he was walking downtown. He 
turned brusquely about and set off in the oppo¬ 
site direction. 


COMMENCEMENT 


221 


Gregory tossed the book on the corner of the 
refectory table and stretched himself out upon 
his bed. It was strange that he had never 
longed to go to sea. Perhaps he had and had 
forgotten about it. Most boys did at one time 
or another. Still, he could not remember such 
a desire. There would be a healthy, vigorous 
pleasure in that sort of life—on a sailing vessel, 
of course, not on a modern steamboat. Would 
he have the courage to stand by his oar when 
the boat was being towed by a maddened 
whaled Still, they probably didn’t catch 
whales that way any more. Somewhere—in 
moving pictures, probably—he had seen mod¬ 
ern whaling methods. 

He turned on his side and stared at the green 
lampshade. Two musical comedy matinees, 
miscellaneous moving picture shows, and one 
vaudeville performance. He had been out of 
work ten days now. This sort of life would 
have to end soon. His mind was blurred. 
There were no fixed points. In the end he 
would take work because it was work, not be¬ 
cause he had decided upon anything in particu¬ 
lar. Soon his family would be leaving for the 
country. He might go with them. Vaudeville 
shows, moving pictures. He must do some- 
thing. 

The closing of a door echoed faintly in 
Gregory’s room. He heard short, quick foot¬ 
steps and then a rap on his own door. 


222 


COMMENCEMENT 


‘'Come in.” 

“Hello, Greg! Don’t look so surprised. I’m 
not going to borrow any more money.” Cath¬ 
erine sat in the chair before the table, took off 
her hat, and ran her fingers through her hair. 
“But you stand a chance of not getting your 
loan back very soon.” 

“I’m not in a hurry,” he replied, listlessly. 
“How are you*?” 

“There isn’t anything the matter with me. 
I’m feeling like a million dollars.” 

“Money again.” 

“Being without a job doesn’t seem to agree 
with you. You’ve had a terrible grouch lately. 
I suppose it’s the broken engagement. Still, 
that was your doing, so you say.” 

“Don’t you believe me?” 

“Of course. Don’t be so huffy. Anj-^way, 
I’m not worrying about your troubles just 
now.” 

Gregory looked more interestedly at Cath¬ 
erine. 

“As a matter of fact, I’m going to get mar¬ 
ried, myself.” 

“What!” 

Catherine toyed with a paper-cutter. “About 
time, isn’t it?” 

“To—to him?” 

“Who? Oh, the villain? Heavens, no! I 
-It’s some one else—some one entirely dif- 



COMMENCEMENT 


223 


ferent. You remember the afternoon you came 
in to see me just after—after I got back?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, you remember some one telephoned 
—a Mr. Morn?” 

“Yes—faintly.” 

“Well, it’s he. I’d only just met him then. 
I couldn’t understand why he kept telephon¬ 
ing.” She laughed nervously. “I understand 
now.” 

“Does the family know?” 

“No, and they won’t till after I’m married, 
either. We’re going to do it swiftly and quietly. 
He hasn’t any money—^not a nickel. He’s a 
painter.” 

“Well!” 

“Well?” 

“Are you glad?” asked Gregory after a 
pause. 

“I am.” 

“You-” 

“Yes, I’m in love with him, very much so.” 

“He doesn’t know, I suppose.” 

“You mean about-He does. I told him. 

I don’t know why I ever did it—tell him, I 
mean. I wanted to and I did, that’s all. I’m 
glad I did, now. I’m almost glad it all hap¬ 
pened. I have that much more reason for lik¬ 
ing him.” 

Gregory sat with his chin in his hands and 




COMMENCEMENT 


224 

gazed at the corner of the desk. 'When are 
you going to get married?” 

"To-morrow. You’re the only one who 
knows about it. You won’t tell, will you?” 

"Of course not.” 

"I’m sure you’d like him, Greg,” she said, 
impulsively. "He’s awfully sort of sympa¬ 
thetic. I don’t know just how to express it. 
We seem to feel the same way about things.” 

"Is he well known as an artist?” 

"Not yet.” 

"You say he hasn’t any money?” 

"No money, no job, no nothing.” Catherine 
yawned. "But he has lovely eyes.” 

"How are you going to live?” 

"On love, I guess.” 

"Love and father, I suppose.” 

"You can’t make me mad, Greg, if that’s 
what you’re trying to do. As a matter of fact, 
I’m not counting on father. Aunt Annie’s a 
romantic soul, you know.” She winked. 

"Yes, probably the idea of your eloping with 
an artist will appeal to her. I suppose he’s 
counting on that, too.” Gregory could not keep 
his features from expressing a certain self-satis¬ 
fying scorn. 

"You’re getting so worldly. You think of 
nothing but dollars and cents.” She arose and 
picked up her hat. "You’re running true to 
form again after that short relapse. This is 
what I expected the last time I confided in 


COMMENCEMENT 225 

you.” Her eyes fixed on his for a moment as 
she stood at the door. ‘‘I think you’ve been 
rotten, Greg, damned rotten!” She shrugged 
her shoulders and left the room. 

Catherine in love! The idea was preposter¬ 
ous. Gregory crossed his room and sat on the 
corner of the table. He stared hard at the 
floor. Of course it couldn’t last long—^not on 
such a basis. She would get tired of that sort 
of life as quickly as of any other. She couldn’t 
be really in love, obviously, otherwise she 
would not have spoken so callously of Aunt 
Annie. He had resisted that temptation. He 
tried to inspire self-satisfaction with this 
thought, but the idea became confused. He 
might have eloped with Georgia. But was it 
she who had left him this dismal loneliness*? 
Or was it the sudden collapse of the frail, un¬ 
certain structure he had built of life? How 
silly to doubt! Love should come in a blind¬ 
ing flash, blasting doubt and belief, filling one 
with infinite ecstasy. Exactly what Aunt 
Annie would say. At least one couldn’t laugh 
at Catherine’s romance. Yet, after all, she was 
marrying a penniless artist. What could be 
more sentimental and romantic than that? 
There was no certainty that Aunt Annie would 
come to the rescue. Indeed, the marriage was 
a desperate chance. 

He stood up and dug his toe into the rug. 
He had been rotten to Catherine. He ought to 


226 


COMMENCEMENT 


tell her he was sorry. He walked to the door, 
hesitated a moment, and finally stepped out 
into the hall. A light came from the half-open 
door to her room. Without conscious reason 
for his caution he tiptoed stealthily along and 
spoke her name in a whisper. 

‘‘Who ’re you going to rob, Greg‘? Come on 
in.” She closed the door behind him. 

He stood staring at the half-filled traveling 
case on her bed, and, as he did not immediately 
speak, Catherine resumed her packing. 

“I won’t keep you, Kate. I just wanted to 
say I was sorry, that’s all.” 

“It’s all right, Greg. Thanks.” She did not 
look up at him. 

“And about that money—don’t worry about 
paying it back. It’s a wedding present.” 

Catherine straightened up and turned to look 
at Gregory. As their eyes met, the same 
thought seemed simultaneously to occur to 
each. She smiled sardonically. 

“An unusual present, anyway, isn’t it?” she 
asked. 

“I didn’t think about that.” 

“I know you didn’t. She walked impulsively 
to her brother and kissed him on the cheek. 
“You’re all right, Greg, only you mustn’t be so 
worldly and business-like.” She laughed and 
turned back to her packing. 

“Can I help you?” 

“No, thanks.” 


COMMENCEMENT 


227 

‘'If there’s anything I can do to-morrow, let 
me know.” 

“Thanks. There won’t be. I’ll call you up 
soon and have you over to see us.” 

“Do you know where you’re going to live?” 

“Yes. Joel has a flat—now here’s your 
chance for scorn, Greg—over on Tenth Avenue, 
for which he pays the vast sum of eighteen dol¬ 
lars a month. Your imagination will fill in the 
rest.” 

“I—I wish I had his courage—or yours.” 
He sat down and scrubbed his face against his 
hands. “An artist can do that. It’s all right 
for him, but for anyone in business it’s fatal.” 

“Oh, well, there wouldn’t be any point in 
your doing it. You can stay with dad till 
you’re fixed.” 

“I ought not to stay here. It’s bad for me.” 

Catherine continued silently with her pack¬ 
ing. 

“I’ve got to do something. I’m going all to 
pieces. Oh, I know I’m an ass. The thing to 
do is to go out and get another job, but some¬ 
how that means surrender to everything I hate. 
I’m willing to work for my living, but I refuse 
to exert all my energy toward climbing, and 
unless you do that you go under. The difficulty 
is that my ambition doesn’t coincide with that 
of the majority. Therefore I’m discarded like 
an old rusty wheel.” 

“Gregory”— Catherine stood looking down 


228 COMMENCEMENT 

at him—“I have great hopes for you. At least 
you won’t be a deadhead. If you fail, you 11 
do it well. Just now you seem a little afraid of 
failure, but that will pass off. I like to think of 
you as you were that first night after you got 
home from college. It’s funny. You looked as 
if you’d just got back from selling a big bill 
of goods in Kansas City. I thought that by this 
time you’d be wearing a diamond stick-pin. 

“Well, I never expected to see you packing 
up to elope with a starving painter.” 

“Oh, it’s a great life, after all.” She ran 
her hands through her hair and ended the 
gesture in a yawn. “I’m a good Christian, 
Greg. I take no thought of the morrow—or is 
that in the Koran^ They say I haven’t a 
thought in my head, but I certainly make other 
people think, and that’s something. 

Gregory stood up. 

“Well, come to see us soon, Greg. I’ll call 
you up after we get back from our honeymoon 
at the city hall, and if Joel arid I can buy 
enough liver and onions, we 11 invite you to 
dinner.” She kissed him again. “Under this 
rough exterior I have a heart of gold.” 

He smiled and returned to his own room. 
He tried to read, but he soon threw the book 
aside and stretched out on his back. 

Leonora’s eyes were flooded with tears. 
Georgia’s nostrils were white and distended. 
Yashka danced before an emerald curtain. 


COMMENCEMENT 229 

She bared her long teeth in a slow smile. Her 
arms curled whip-like. 

Mrs. Thrumm sighed and shifted nervously 
in her bed. “Rupert, are you asleep?’’ 

“No.” 

“What are you going to do about Gregory?” 

“There isn’t anything I can do.” 

“Why don’t you take him in with you?” 

‘‘That wouldn’t do any good.” 

“It would give him something to do.” 

“He can get a job easily enough if he wants 
to, I guess. That isn’t the trouble.” 

“You mean he seems broken up over losing 
that girl?” 

“That’s part of it, I suppose. It won’t do 
him any harm to drift awhile.” 

“He’s always seemed to be a good boy. He 
still does, only I don’t quite see what’s got into 
him. He doesn’t seem to be interested in any¬ 
thing any more. I’m glad that engagement was 
broken, though. He wasn’t making enough 
money to support a wife.” 

Mr. Thrumm made no reply. 

“I’m afraid he’ll never find a position as 
good as the one he lost. And it really didn’t 
seem fair to me that he should be dismissed 
just for staring out of the window.” 

“Oh, it wasn’t just that. He probably 


COMMENCEMENT 


230 

hadn’t been doing his work well.” Mr. 
Thrumm sighed. “He’ll have to learn to com¬ 
promise, to adjust himself.” 

“What do you mean*?” 

“Just what I say.” 

“But I don’t see just why there’s any ques¬ 
tion of compromise. Any man wants to be suc¬ 
cessful, and to do that he must work.” 

“Gregory doesn’t know what sort of success 
he wants.” 

“What sort!” 

“Oh, let’s go to sleep. He’ll come out all 
right—I guess. It doesn’t do any good to 
worry about it, anyway.” 

“I think you ought to have a talk with him, 
Rupert.” 

“What would I say^” 

“That’s for you to decide, but you’re a man 
and you’ve had experience in business.” 

“Gregory must work out his problems for 
himself. I-” 

“What were you going to say?” 

“Nothing. Let’s go to sleep.” 

Mrs. Thrumm sighed and shifted her posi¬ 
tion. 

Until he went to sleep some time later, 
Rupert Thrumm’s thoughts were of his father, 
after whom Gregory had been named. Gregory 
Thrumm the elder had been a public-school 
teacher in New York City, except for a period 
of five years when he had gone to California 



COMMENCEMENT 231 

on a fruitless search for fortune. He had mar¬ 
ried late in life and had died when his only son, 
Rupert, was in college. The elder Gregory had 
taught American history and had preached the 
gospel of the Star Spangled Banner. ‘‘It is the 
greatest nation the world has ever seen,” he 
would declare, standing up and locking his 
hands behind his back, only to fling them out 
the next moment in a broad gesture. “Wealth, 
power, the satisfaction of justice are ours. 
While old civilizations die, ours will rise to un¬ 
known heights. We are building the greatest 
structure man has ever known.” His hands 
would drop to his sides and he would pick up a 
book and retire to his armchair by the window. 
But he would not read, and later he would look 
across at Rupert, who was perhaps doing his 
lessons. “Rupert, you must prepare yourself 
for a part in the building of this nation. Any 
future is yours, if only you have the will to 
hold your attention to it. I missed my oppor¬ 
tunity, but you must not miss yours.” 

Rupert Thrumm turned over on his side. 
And so on, he thought with a sigh, generation 
after generation after generation . . . 

He fell asleep. 



CHAPTER EIGHT 


“I don’t know anything more about him than 
what Tve told you.” Gregory repeated the 
statement for the third time since dinner had 
begun. A brief note announcing Catherine’s 
marriage had arrived that afternoon, and Mrs. 
Thrumm was tearfully clamoring for facts, 
rumors—anything bearing upon the subject. 
For his mother Gregory felt only a faint, irri¬ 
table pity, whereas for his father he was con¬ 
scious of deep sympathy. Mr. Thrumm sat 
bowed in silence over his meal. Gregory 
noticed that his father was not eating. The 
plan that Gregory had made that afternoon 
hardened. Carried through, it would, he be¬ 
lieved, give some consolation to his father. 

“But what are they going to live on^? I sup¬ 
pose they’ll expect help from us. We shan’t 
give her a penny, not if I have anything to say 
about it.” 

Gregory sighed at the futility of his mother’s 
words. He knew they were meaningless. Ever 
since he could remember, his mother’s favorite 
threat to both himself and Catherine had been 
the withholding of “even a penny.” But she 
had always been generous. Gregory folded his 
napkin as he saw his father get up from the 
232 





COMMENCEMENT 


233 


table, and, as Mr. Thrumm left the room, 
Gregory followed him. When Gregory entered 
the library, his father was standing in the mid¬ 
dle of the room, biting the end off a cigar. 

‘‘May I speak with you a minute, father 

“No more upsets are there, son^?’’ His father 
smiled grimly. 

“No. It’s this. I—can you give me a job 
at the factory—or in the office? I don’t care 
which.” 

Mr. Thrumm lit his cigar and settled himself 
comfortably in the leather chair by his desk. 
“Sit down, Gregory.” Mr. Thrumm watched 
his son intently for some moments. “What sort 
of work do you think you can do?” 

“I don’t know exactly. I’m willing to try 
anything.” 

“Nail up packing cases?” 

“I’m willing.” 

“Why do you want the job?” 

“I’ve got to do something. I can’t drift 
along like this forever.” 

“Yes, but why have you chosen the soap 
business?” 

“I don’t care much what business it is. I’ve 
got to do something,” he reiterated, desperately. 

“Can you imagine anybody but your father 
hiring you after such an interview as this?” 

Gregory studied his finger nails. 

“No, Gregory, I have no job for you. Fm 
sorry. If you had good reasons why you wanted 


COMMENCEMENT 


234 

to get into this business, I might hire you, al¬ 
though I don’t approve of mixing up family 
relations with business. Sounds hard, doesn’t 
it? Tell me, have you any reason to think you 
would be more contented in the soap business 
than you were in advertising?” 

‘‘No.” 

“Think it all out, Gregory, before you act 
again. I can’t help you. I shall try not to give 
you advice, unless you ask for it. And Gregory, 
please don’t ask me for pocket money. I’m 
afraid that if you did I wouldn’t have the heart 
to refuse, and yet I know I ought to refuse.” 

Gregory stood up. 

“If I’m hard hearted, I don’t mean to be. I 
won’t spoil you, Gregory, and I can’t help you. 
I may do something for Catherine because, 
after all, she’s comparatively helpless.” Mr. 
Thrumm leaned forward in his chair. 
“Gregory, do you realize how hard it is for 
me to say all this? To refuse you what you 
ask? Of course you don’t. I may be making 
you, or I may be ruining you. I can’t be cer¬ 
tain. But I’ve decided that this way’s best, 
and I’m going through with it.” 

“Oh, you’re right, I guess. I don’t know 
how to decide what I want to do, though. 
Were—were you always interested in making 
money?” 

“Gregory, do you remember the time—^you 
were about twelve years old then; it was when 


COMMENCEMENT 


235 

we were all up on Jasper’s farm one summer— 
do you remember collecting driftwood down 
on the beach and building a house with it?” 

Gregory’s eyebrows puckered and relaxed. 
‘‘Oh yes, I remember. I tried to make a fire in 
it and I almost choked to death on account of 
the smoke.” 

“When you built that house, Gregory, did 
you ever really expect to live in it?” 

“I don’t remember. Probably not. I prob¬ 
ably never even thought about it.” 

“And you didn’t expect to sell it?” 

Gregory smiled. 

“And I remember that after the house was 
finished and you had done all you could to it, 
you deserted it. You never went there and 
enjoyed the result of your work, except to show 
it off now and again to a new playmate.” Mr. 
Thrumm settled back in his chair. “You see 
what I’m driving at—the answer to your ques¬ 
tion, don’t you?” 

“Yes, but-” 

“Oh, I know there are thousands of buts. 
You must arrange them. I can’t. Don’t think 
I’m satisfied with myself. There are old 
dreams which I never followed. That’s the rea¬ 
son I don’t dare to give you advice.” 

Gregory sauntered aimlessly down Broad¬ 
way. He half-closed his eyes and looked up at 



COMMENCEMENT 


236 

a towering network of blue steel. The sun, 
hovering above the roof of a house, blazed 
against the gaunt lines and upon the yellow 
whiteness of a building beyond. The air 
trembled under the raucous staccato of many 
pneumatic riveters. He stopped and watched 
a man adjusting cables at the top of a high 
crane. His interest flagged, and he continued 
his way. He slowed his pace uncertainly. 
Jimmy Seffem was walking up the street to¬ 
ward him. Gregory’s impulse was to cross the 
street and avoid Jimmy, but, before he could 
act upon it, Jimmy’s glance reached him and 
brightened with recognition. 

‘Hello, Greg! How are you?” 

“All right.” 

“Why haven’t you called me up or some¬ 
thing? How’s everything?” 

“I’ve lost my job.” 

“No, not really—not you!” 

“Yes me. What are you doing?” 

“Me? Oh, I’ve got a good job. I’m a com¬ 
poser.” 

“A composer?” 

“Why not? Somebody has to do it.” 

“What are you composing?” 

“Music, of course. I’m with Jake Schultz—- 
you know his things. I got an introduction to 
him and he liked some of my stuff, so he took 
me on. I finished up a sentimental ballad this 
morning that’s going to be brought out. It 


COMMENCEMENT 


237 

goes like this.” Jimmy hummed several bars. 
“You can’t make much out of it until you hear 
it played. It isn’t bad. There’s money in it if 
you can get across. But you losing your job— 
I can’t get over it. What did you do? Spit on 
the floor?” 

Gregory smiled. “No. I didn’t get the 
work done, that’s all.” 

“Ah, well, my boy, you are young.” Jimmy 
stroked an imaginary beard. “Don’t get dis¬ 
couraged. It’s a long lane that has no birds in 
the bush. And don’t let them step on you and 
walk over you. Buy a pair of spats and a cane 
and start thumbing the old nose. Oh, say, 
have you seen Spelfer lately?” 

“No—not since he left the office.” 

“Well, you know all this business about his 
wife?” 

“Yes.” 

“He’s taken her back again and they’re liv¬ 
ing happily ever afterward.” 

“When did that happen?” 

“Oh, a week or so ago. He wouldn’t tell me 
much about it, but I gather that when he went 
to see her, he went to mock and stayed to pet. 
Love is a wonderful thing. How’s Leonora?” 

“Why, she was well the last time I saw her.” 

“The last time you saw her! Last night, you 
mean.” 

“No, about two weeks ago.” 


COMMENCEMENT 


238 

“All right then, if you won’t tell me. I’ll 
ask you. Aren’t you still engaged to her?” 

“No.” 

“My God! Greg, if you have any more 
tragedy to tell me, spill it and get it over 
with. Every time I ask you a question, I feel as 
if I were walking through a morgue. Good 
Lord! No job, no girl, no nothing. I’m aw¬ 
fully sorry,” he said in a flash of seriousness. 
“Listen. I’ve got a date now and I must hurry 
along. Call me up to-morrow. Here, have you 
got a pencil? I’ll give you my number. Be 
sure to call me up now. Oh, say, have you 
seen Jo?” 

“Not since that night.” 

“I saw her about a week ago, and she was ask¬ 
ing about you. Well, good-by, Greg. I’ll see 
you soon.” 

As Gregory continued his walk, gloom settled 
more and more densely into his thoughts. At 
the end of a block he turned and retraced his 
steps, making for the nearest subway station. 
He went directly home and shut himself in his 
room. He read in a half a dozen books for a 
few minutes each and finally stretched out on 
his bed and stared up at the ceiling. At dinner 
he roused himself from his preoccupation to 
answer his mother’s occasional questions, and 
once during the meal he glanced up to find his 
father surveying him. Upon swallowing the 


COMMENCEMENT. 239 

last mouthful of food Gregory hurried away 
from the table. 

Back in his room, he opened the top drawer 
of his desk and fumbled about for a moment 
among the litter of papers. At last he drew 
forth a small, ragged-edged slip and gazed re¬ 
flectively at it. He lit a cigarette and perched 
himself on the edge of the table, the slip still in 
his hand. Finally he folded the paper, tucked 
it into his vest pocket, and stood up to regard 
himself in the mirror. He brushed his hair, 
straightened his tie, and, after picking up his 
hat, hastily left the room. 

He walked across to Broadway and, at the 
corner, entered a drug store. There he closed 
himself into a telephone booth and took the slip 
of paper out of his pocket. After he had given 
the number he noticed that his lips were 
slightly dry. His heart was beating rapidly. 
He partly opened the door of the booth in order 
to let in fresh air. 

‘‘Hello! Is Miss Josephine Tooey there 

“Who’s this?’ 

“This is—this is Mr. Thrumm speaking.” 

“Mr. who^ Oh, I know—little Gregory, as 
I live. Why all the formality? I thought you 
were mad at your little friend and wouldn’t 
come to see her no more. How are you, kid?” 

“Anxious to see you. How are you?” 

“Oh, still able to take my liquor.” 


240 


COMMENCEMENT 


“To-night*? I don’t know. I’m afraid-” 

“Oh, come on.” 

“How about to-morrow?” 

“No, to-night. You can make it, can’t 
you?” he urged. 

The receiver crackled and boomed under the 
vibrations of Jo’s laughter. “All right, kid. 
Since it’s you. I’ll fix it. Don’t get here before 
nine, and everything ’ll be all O. K.” 

“Oh, and one thing more—where can I get 
some liquor?” 

When Gregory left the drug store he was 
smiling complacently. He stood at the curb 
and lit a cigarette. An empty taxi rolled down 
the avenue, and Gregory hailed it. He set¬ 
tled himself in the corner of the car and puffed 
leisurely at his cigarette. ''When thefre young 
an^ their nerves is strung hummed Gregory. 
The taxi became clogged in a jam of traffic, and 
Gregory shifted nervously in his seat. Georgia 
—he must not think of her. The skin was 
white and taut over her arched nose. Her lips 
were red and elastic. Her fingers, long and 
thin and capable . . . 

Gregory pressed the white button under the 
name Tooey. Beneath his arm he carried a 
brown-paper package. He moistened his lips 
and impatiently leaned his weight first on one 
foot and then on the other. The door swung 
open, and Jo’s deep voice reassured him. 

“Hello, kid! Glad to see you. And what 


COMMENCEMENT 


241 


have we in the package*?” She smiled lazily 
and put her arm about his shoulders. Gregory 
reached her lips. . . . 

Jo stirred the whisky in her glass. “Pretty 
good stuff, this. Emil’s in with the police and 
gets the real stuff.” 

“Well, where shall we go^” 

“Dunno. Anywhere you say.” 

“Somewhere where they have good jazz.” 

“All right. I’ll lead you. You’ll learn a lot, 
kid, if you stick around me.” She winked. 
“Wait till I put on the old bonnet.” 

Gregory poured out another drink and swal¬ 
lowed it quickly. He looked in the mirror over 
the mantelpiece and smiled broadly. “We’re 
going to have a hell of a good time to-night,” he 
said, gazing at his reflection. “Shall we have 
another little drink?’ He tried to wink one 
eye, but both closed. “Just a teeny bit—a 
soupgon?^^ 

Jo stepped into the room. “You’re beauti¬ 
ful, you think, don’t you?’ 

“I know it. Let’s have another drink before 
we go.” 

“You come with me. I’m not goin’ to carry 
you.” 

They ran boisterously down the steps. They 
were sitting in a taxicab. Jolts, bumps, flash¬ 
ing lights through the window, unsatisfactory 
kisses, Jo’s deep voice, the odor of violet per¬ 
fume. He handed the chauffeur an uncertain 


COMMENCEMENT 


242 

amount of change and followed Jo through a 
long corridor and into an elevator. They were 
sitting at a small green table. There were sub¬ 
dued rose lights and the hum of conversation 
broken now and again by the clatter of dishes 
or a sharp laugh. Jo sat opposite, her chin 
resting in the palm of her hand. She looked 
imusually serious. 

‘‘Why are you looking at me like that^?” de¬ 
manded Gregory. 

She laughed. “You’ll be all O. K. in a 
couple of minutes, kid. The first ten years is 
the hardest.” 

Gregory stared dumbly at her wide, full 
mouth. He watched her lips stretch in a smile 
and contract again. He was conscious of the 
tingling warmth of the whisky in his throat. 
His eyeballs seemed less swollen and heavy. 
He looked away again. There was always 
something to prevent him from quite forgetting 
himself. There remained a margin of discon¬ 
tent and doubt. Georgia. Why was it she 
should stand forth more and more prominently 
from his thoughts? He didn’t want to get 
married, anyway. He wanted freedom. Oh, 
there would be somebody sooner or later. One 
more drink would cut away this depressing 
gloom. “Can’t we get something to drink 
here?” he demanded. 

“Need another? Sure. Ask for what you 


COMMENCEMENT 


243 

want. If you’re with me, they’ll give you any¬ 
thing.” 

Abruptly Gregory turned his head. From 
the corner of the room came the long minor 
blast of the cornet, and, after it, mounting in a 
prolonged wail, the falsetto cry of a saxo¬ 
phone. A smile gradually spread over his face. 
The monotonous pounding of the drums, the 
strident plaints of the saxophone, the blatant 
twang of the cornet—all drove the blood 
rhythmically, tumultuously through his veins. 
His shoulders swayed slightly, unconsciously. 
The resonance diminished, forming a pulsat¬ 
ing background for the minor whining of the 
saxophone. The music flared forth aerain. 
swept on by the blare of the cornet. 

“That’s damn good music, brother.” 

“It is.” Gregory grinned broadly. “Come 
on, let’s dance.” 

The orchestra slid into the chorus. Gregory 
started and drew back slightly to look at Jo. 
“Why—that’s the song you sang. You re¬ 
member?” 

“I sure do.” 

As they danced, Jo sang the chorus, softly, 
but with the many nuances of which her deep, 
vibrant voice was capable. 

“/ make *em wise and cautious. 

When they're young^ 

An' their nerves is strung^ 

An' they're feelin' anxious 


244 COMMENCEMENT 

For a little lovin* — well, 

I gives it to 'em. Them that fell 

For me knows how to kiss and to hug. 

In my arms I keep 'em snug like a bug in a rug. 

They's somethin' 'bout me that they can t forget. 

They may go way; 

The little mice may play. 

But believe me those guys 

Is gonna be doggone cautious and wise'' 

The music stopped, and they walked back 
to their table. The drinks Gregory had ordered 
had arrived, and he swallowed his at a single 
gulp. “I want another. Where’s the waiter*?” 

“No, you mustn’t.” 

Gregory threw her hand from his arm. “I’ve 
got to have another,” he declared, petulantly. 
“Waiter!” He gave his order in a loud voice 
and looked defiantly across the table at Jo. 
Somehow, he felt a growing dislike for her. 
Her face was too damn pasty, anyway—a 
stupid woman. “I wish they’d play again,” he 
said, irritably. “They wait too long in be¬ 
tween.” 

“Listen, kid, please don’t drink so much. 
It’s bad for you.” 

“What’s the idea?” he demanded, gruffly. 
“Why all the good advice?” 

“I like you, kid, and I know what that stuff 
does to you.” 

Gregory laughed loudly. The waiter de¬ 
posited a glass on the table, and Gregory fin¬ 
ished it off with a wink at Jo. “What’s the 


COMMENCEMENT 


245 

matter with you all of a sudden? This isn’t a 
funeral.” 

‘‘They ain’t nothin’ the matter with me.” 

“Why so gloomy? We came out to have a 
good time.” 

“I suppose you think I’m always cheerful 
and full of jazz. I’m human, too. It upsets 
me, kid, to see you this way. I liked you a lot 
better when you was a little more bashful.” 
She leaned her heavy arms on the table. “Do 
you think I’d lead this kind of a life if I had my 
way?” 

Jo was becoming sentimental. The incon¬ 
gruity of the realization partly cleared 
Gregory’s mind. He stared at her face and 
saw that the elastic lips had become flaccid and 
drooping. A bitter resentment welled up in 
him. Jo, the epitome of crude vulgarity, held 
this mawkish softness. He had come to her 
because of the rude strength of her coarseness, 
and he had found a sentimental, middle-aged 
woman. 

“. . . but I haven’t always been like this. 
I was crazy about a guy once. I would ’a’ 
killed myself for him, but after he’d had a 
good time with me he told me to go to hell. I 
done it all right. And you expect me to laugh 
when I see a nice kid like you goin’ wrong.” 
She reached to lay her hand on his arm, but he 
drew away. “Oh, I know you think I’m 
handin’ you a line. You don’t know, kid, how 


COMMENCEMENT 


246 

many people like me there is who laugh to hide 
a broken heart.” 

A gleam of hatred rose and died in Gregory’s 
eyes. The heavy pink flesh of her arm revolted 
him. She seemed soft and diseased. He 
swayed slightly in his chair. The idea seized 
upon him that he must get away before it 
was too late, before he was too drunk. His 
thoughts were becoming muddled. The hatred 
he felt surprised him. It did not seem beyond 
possibility that he should stand up and shriek 
his thoughts at her. An immoral Aunt Annie. 
Get away, away, away. Muddy tears in her 
eyes. 

‘T had a nice home once and---” 

Gregory jerked back his chair and stood up. 
His hand fumbled in his coat pocket and ap¬ 
peared bearing a pocketbook. Gregory looked 
at it strangely and opened it. He hesitated, as 
if uncertain as to what he had intended to do 
with the pocketbook. At length he drew forth 
an untidy wad of bills. Jo was staring 
up in surprise. “Got to go—in a hurry.” He 
dropped the bills on the table. “Good night.” 
He turned and walked rapidly to the door. At 
the cloak room, where he stopped to get his hat, 
he looked back. Jo was standing up beside the 
table, and gazing after him. He laughed 
loudly in the face of the boy who was holding 
forth his hat. “Probably thinks I fell for it,” 
he mumbled, as he took his hat. “Couldn’t do 



COMMENCEMENT 


247 

evil to the poor wronged old lady.” He handed 
the boy a piece of change and stumbled into the 
elevator. 

He tried to stand on the curbstone before 
the cafe. Alternately he stepped into the gut¬ 
ter and then regained his precarious perch. 
The idea popped into his mind that he wanted 
to see some one, wanted to talk with some one. 
He had a lot of things he wanted to say. He 
wanted to explain how it had all happened. A 
sentence framed itself in his mind. Dishwater 
is indigestible. He laughed aloud. He must 
tell that to some one. He must talk. Might 
go and call on Catherine. She would under¬ 
stand. What was the number? He fumbled 
in his pocket and produced a small book which 
he dropped twice before he finally found the 
page he was looking for. Dishwater is indi¬ 
gestible. He waved his arm and shouted 
loudly at a passing taxicab. 


CHAPTER NINE 


“Is THIS likely to happen oftenAs Joel 
Morn stirred his coffee he regarded a confused 
pile of bed covers and a rumpled head on the 
couch at the side of the room. 

“I never knew him to do it before. And 
why he should have come here, I can’t imagine. 
He’s usually a shy violet sort of person.” Cath¬ 
erine shook her head as she looked at the couch. 
“He sleeps well, anyway.” 

“Well, it’s nice to know there’s one member 
of your family who doesn’t look horrified when 
he comes to see us. Your mother probably 
hasn’t got over it yet. Still, she wasn’t drunk. 
I wish we’d been able to fill that aunt of yours 
with liquor.” 

Catherine sighed. “I thought our romance 
would touch her heart. Maybe it did, but 
your pictures closed her pocketbook.” 

“Oh, cheer up! Let’s try to convince our¬ 
selves that we’d be too proud to take her money, 
anyway.” A movement of the blankets on the 
couch drew Joel’s attention. “He’s alive. I 
wonder whether he’ll tell us about dishwater 
being indigestible when he wakes up.” 

“I’m worried about Greg. He’s been pretty 

248 






COMMENCEMENT 


249 

hard hit, losing his job and the girl he was 
engaged to.” 

“Oh, he’s just a little romantic, I guess, and 
thinks it’s the proper thing to take to drink un¬ 
der the circumstances.” 

“All he’s been doing lately is sitting around 
and looking mournful. Even this is better than 
the way he was just before we got married. He 
shows signs of life, anyway.” 

“A son of the busy rich.” 

“You don’t know what a serious thinker he 
is.” 

Joel Morn extinguished his cigarette in his 
empty coffee cup and stood up. He walked 
across to an easel standing by the window and 
stared at the picture on it, a large, vivid por¬ 
trait of Catherine. “Sit down a few minutes 
over there, will you?” 

“But you said yesterday it was finished.” 

“I was tired when I said that.” He picked 
up a brush and wiped it meditatively on a torn 
shirt hanging from the easel. 

“I ought to wash the dishes and straighten 
things up a bit.” 

Joel made no reply, and Catherine, after a 
moment’s hesitation, walked across the room 
and arranged herself in a tall, fan-backed chair. 

Gregory opened his eyes and stared at the 
ceiling. He moved his head and glanced about 
the room. His regard settled upon the tall 
figure of Joel Morn. Gregory started up in 


COMMENCEMENT 


250 

bed, and then, changing his mind, he settled 
back cautiously. As memory, haphazard and 
nebulous, vaguely fixed his situation, his face 
reddened. He lay quiet, trying to piece to¬ 
gether the fragments he recalled of the night 
before. He had shaken Mom’s hand profusely. 
He remembered, too, patting him affectionately 
on the back. Gregory chewed at his lips. 
What had he said? There was something he 
had repeated over and over, trying to explain 
it. He had burst into tears, too. And he had 
delivered a long harangue on love. He re¬ 
membered saying that poverty did not really 
matter. He writhed stealthily beneath the 
covers. Perhaps, if he feigned sleep long 
enough, they would leave the room and he 
would be able to get dressed and sneak away. 
He half closed his eyes and observed Mora, 
who was oblivious to everything but his work. 

As he watched, Gregory’s despondency grew 
more and more impenetrable. It hung like an 
oppressive mist over his thoughts. Try as he 
would to rise above this depression which, com¬ 
ing in waves, seemed at times almost like fear, 
he found his efforts impotent. The futile weeks 
which had passed since he had lost his job held 
his thoughts. Again and again he reviewed 
them, and always there was in the background 
a dread lest he had severed himself irrevocably 
from Georgia. He found himself explaining 
his weaknesses as he might explain them to her, 


COMMENCEMENT 


251 

should they meet again. He realized faintly, 
but with increasing clarity, that memories of 
her dominated his moods. If only he were a 
painter. He imagined himself working inces¬ 
santly, absorbed in modeling his colors into a 
great picture. The dream burst. What could 
he do^ What did he want to do? The ques¬ 
tion would have to be answered, but whence 
were to come the ideas necessary to a decision? 

Morn stepped back to view his work as a 
whole. His head grazed the low, grimy ceil¬ 
ing. This huge, burly person was not at all the 
artist Gregory had imagined. Indeed, there 
was nothing artistic about the room, except 
Joel’s easel, a pile of canvases stacked against 
the wall, and the acrid odor of turpentine. 
Their poverty was undoubtedly real. There 
was a huge patch in Morn’s trousers, and the 
soft collar of his shirt was frayed. Gregory 
stretched his head in an effort to see the picture, 
but his line of vision was so nearly parallel to 
the canvas that he could see only a confusion 
of color. He watched Catherine, dressed in her 
black-silk kimono and patiently gazing at the 
base of the easel. The tall, blackened coffee-pot 
on the table partly obscured his view of her. 
He wondered how Catherine enjoyed washing 
dishes. A shiny yellow cup held his gaze, and 
he gradually drifted into a doze. 

He awoke again with a start and, remember- 


COMMENCEMENT 


252 

ing his situation, kept his eyes closed. Cather¬ 
ine was speaking. 

“. . . simply got to get this place cleaned up 
if I’m ever going to. It’s almost time for 
luncheon.” 

“Oh, damn it! All right. Go ahead.” 

Gregory partly opened his eyes and saw Joel 
Mom throw his brush petulantly on the littered 
work table beside the easel. 

“Just when I’m getting somewhere, you in¬ 
terrupt me.” He watched her sullenly as she 
walked to the table and began piling up the 
dishes. “How long are you going to let that 
brother of yours sleep?” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“Heyl Wake up!” Joel’s voice rever¬ 
berated through the room. 

Gregory started and remembered to pre¬ 
tend that he had been asleep. He stretched 
and grunted. 

“Come on, Greg, you’d better get up.” 
Catherine shook him gently. 

Joel crossed the room and stood beside the 
couch. When Gregory opened his eyes wide, 
he found that he was returning Joel’s gaze. 

“You probably don’t remember me,” said 
Joel, smiling grimly, “but you met me last 
night. I’m your brother-in-law.” 

“I- Yes, I remember you.” 

“Come, Greg, get up and get dressed.” 
Catherine picked up the coffee-pot and shook it. 



COMMENCEMENT 253 

‘There’s a little left. Fll heat it for you.” 

As she left the room, Gregory boosted him¬ 
self up to a sitting position and swung his feet 
to the floor. “Fm awfully sorry this hap¬ 
pened. I—I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t 
been drunk.” 

“That seems to be the general feeling among 
your family—that they wouldn’t come here in 
their right senses.” 

“I didn’t mean that. Did I say much? Did 
I talk a lot last night?” 

“Dishwater was the main theme.” 

Gregory flushed. 

“What did you mean by it?” 

“Oh, nothing.” He looked up at Mom. 
“Oh, I might as well tell you. I was out with 
a woman last night, and—it’s awfully hard to 
explain. Fd always thought her as hard as 
nails, and then she got sentimental. I prob¬ 
ably wouldn’t have acted as I did if I hadn’t 
been drunk, but I hated her. I still do. She 
got sort of wabbly and mushy, and I got up 
and ran away. We were at some cafe some¬ 
where. Oh, it was my fault, too, I guess. I 
was trying to fight against being sentimental 
myself—^not toward her—^but I felt sort of de¬ 
pressed and I wanted her to laugh it out of 
me.” Gregory pulled on his trousers. “Oh, it 
won’t happen again. Or, if it does, I won’t 
burst in like that.” ^ 

Morn smiled and gave a low grunt. ‘What 


COMMENCEMENT 


254 

do you expect from that sort of woman*?” He 
picked up a package of cigarettes and held it 
out to Gregory. “Have a smoked” 

“Thanks. But you really don't have to 
worry about my coming in like that. I wanted 
to talk to some one, and the idea of coming here 
sort of swept me off my feet.” 

Morn laughed. “Oh, it wasn't a bad intro¬ 
duction. It was a relief, after the way your 
mother arrived.” He turned to the door. “I 
guess we might as well eat luncheon now, too. 
You’re probably hungry. I'll tell Catherine.” 

As Gregory was buttoning his collar he 
stepped across the room and stood in front of 
the portrait of his sister. His eyebrows puck¬ 
ered and his hands dropped to his sides, leav¬ 
ing his collar half buttoned. The colors were 
appealing—he liked color to be bright and 
striking—but the form he could not reconcile 
with his conception of painting. To be sure, it 
was Catherine. There was something about it 
that expressed her with startling force, but the 
picture looked dauby; the paint was too appar¬ 
ent. Somehow the picture discouraged him. 
He felt forced to confess that he could not 
understand it. The vitality which had gone 
into the making of the picture seemed, by con¬ 
trast, to render his own personality colorless. 
He turned away and finished buttoning his 
collar, but a moment later he had returned to 
the portrait, squinting his eyes and moving his 


COMMENCEMENT 


255 

head from side to side. He crossed the room in 
order to observe it from a distance. 

‘‘Do you know anything about painting?” 

Gregory turned and saw Joel Morn smiling 
at him from the doorway. “No. Not much.” 

“Then I won’t ask you whether you like it 
or not. You’d be polite.” 

A few minutes later Catherine came in, 
bearing the coffee-pot and a platter of eggs and 
bacon. “Come on, Greg, gather round the 
board. I bet you never expected to eat any¬ 
thing I cooked.” 

Gregory smiled and sat down. 

“Aunt Annie’s been here.” Catherine 
looked meaningly at Gregory. 

“Did she- 

“Leave her diamonds? No. She and Joel 
had a little quarrel about art. Therefore we 
refused to touch any of her dirty money—ex¬ 
cept a check she gave us for a wedding present. 
The course of true love, you know, and all that 
sort of thing. Lot’s of thrills, but it’s risky. 
I guess you’ll inherit the family millions, Greg 
—unless you get it into your head to go up to 
Aunt Annie’s sometime when you’re drunk. 
Even then she’d probably think you were dis¬ 
appointed in love.” 

For a few moments they ate in silence. 

“What are you going to give us for a wed¬ 
ding present?” demanded Joel, suddenly. 



256 COMMENCEMENT 

Gregory looked with embarrassment at Cath¬ 
erine. 

“Shut up, Joel. I told you what Greg had 
had given us—^me.’’ 

“Oh—oh, I remember.” He screwed up one 
corner of his mouth and smiled. “I must 
thank you. Don't look so modest about it. 
Well, anyway, we collected enough cash td 
take us abroad, and we’re going in a few 
months. We’ve got enough to last us a year, 
if we’re darned careful.” 

“Better come with us, Greg.” 

“The first thing I’ve got to do is to get some 
sort of job.” Gregory spoke determinedly. 

“My! if you’re that serious about it, you’re 
just the man I want,” said Joel. “I can give 
you a job where you’ll have to work hard. I’ll 
give you fifty per cent, commission on every 
picture of mine you sell. Think of it! Fifty 
per cent!” 

Gregory smiled. 

“Of course it’s a joke. Anything connected 
with art is a joke.” 

“I didn’t mean that.” 

“Well, it’s true, whether you mean it or 
not.” 

“Fd give anything if I could paint—if there 
was something like that that really interested 
me—that I could do.” 

“What kind of a job are you looking for?” 

“I was trying to decide while I was lying 


COMMENCEMENT 257 

in bed this morning.” Gregory flushed as he 
remembered that he had feigned sleep. “I 
thought I’d try to get a job with some maga¬ 
zine, or something of that sort.” He realized 
the lack of purpose in his words. 

“Want to be a highbrow, eh?” 

“Oh, I suppose so.” 

“The sins of the father—the soap business 
of the father shall be visited in artistic tem¬ 
peraments on the second and third generations 

-Listen!” Joel dropped his fork and leaned 

across the table toward Gregory, “I know 
where you can work and not make any money. 
Have you got any capital?” 

“A little.” 

“How would you like to buy out a little 
second-hand bookstore?” 

Gregory smiled and then suddenly became 
serious. “Tell me about it.” 

“Well, there’s a man down on Tenth Street 
who has a small basement full of books. He 
wants to get rid of the store. The reason I 
happen to know about it is that he has a picture 
of mine in the shop—liked it and offered to 
display it—and he told me the other day that 
he was thinking of selling out. It won’t cost 
much, I guess, if you can pay cash.” 

“Go ahead and buy it, Greg,” urged Cather¬ 
ine. “It ought to be lots of fun to be your 
own boss. You’d like it.” 

Gregory rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. “I 



258 COMMENCEMENT 

don't know anything about the business." 

‘‘Would you like to go down and look at 
it^ ril take you if you want." 

“I might do that." Gregory stared thought¬ 
fully at his plate. “I don’t know anything 
about it, but I suppose it wouldn’t be difficult 
to learn. It would be better than writing about 
blah-blah birds, anyway." 

When he had finished his luncheon, Joel 
abruptly left the table. “I’ll put on a necktie 
and be right with you," he said. 

“You ought to get married, Greg," said 
Catherine when Joel was gone. 

“This from you!" 

“It’s awfully exciting." 

“That may wear off." 

“Oh, it probably will, but at least it’s a 
new experience." 

“You don’t seem to take it very seriously." 

“No. That would spoil all the fun. You 
see I haven’t changed much, after all." 

“I wish I had your courage," said Gregory 
impulsively. 

Joel returned, and shortly afterward he and 
Gregory left the flat. 

When Gregory reached home that night in 
time for dinner, he was the thoughtful posses¬ 
sor of a small, second-hand bookstore. When 
he announced the fact, his father said little, 


COMMENCEMENT 


259 

but his mother would not believe his statement 
until repetition of it had annoyed Gregory to 
irritability. He had originally intended to 
withhold a second revelation until the first had 
been thoroughly digested, but now he spoke it 
bluntly. 

“There’s one fairly large front room where 
the books are, and then a smaller back room 
with a bath and kitchen. Fm going to fix the 
place up and live in it.” 

“Why, Gregory! I can’t understand it! 
You’re not really going to do that?” His 
mother dropped her fork and leaned back in 
her chair. 

“Yes.” 

“But why should you leave us? And why 
should you go off somewhere and keep shop? 
You know very well you could find something 
better to do if you only wanted to.” 

“But this is what I want.” 

“Why? There isn’t any future to it— 
nothing. It’s ridiculous! Perfectly ridicu¬ 
lous!” 

Gregory said nothing. 

“If you go off and do this and fail, you 
needn’t expect a penny from us. We won’t 
help you. Why don’t you say something, Ru¬ 
pert? You can’t mean to let Gregory really 
do this.” 

“It’s entirely his affair.” 

“But he’s young and he doesn’t really know 


26 o 


COMMENCEMENT 


what he’s doing/’ she pleaded. ‘'Oh, Gregory, 
what is the matter? Why do you do a thing 
like this? You had such a fine opportunity in 
the advertising business and now you’re just 
going to keep shop. Oh, I can’t imderstand it. 
I can’t.” 

“At least I shan’t be making any more blah- 
blah birds.” 

“But even if you don’t like the advertising 
business, there are other things you could go 
into—things with a future.” 

“That’s what I don’t want.” 

“You don’t want!” 

“I don’t want to make a lot of money.” 

Mr. Thrumm’s lips tightened perceptibly. 
“That won’t be hard, son.” 

“I know that. But I do want to make a liv¬ 
ing, and I want to make it without some one 
else telling me what I shall do and what I 
shall think. I won’t have to create ugliness 
at some one else’s bidding. And I won’t be 
forced into a race that doesn’t interest me.” 

“Perhaps you could get interested in it,” 
suggested his father. 

“Sometimes I think it would be easier than 
keeping out, but I won’t give in now. You 
told me the other night that if I took a job' 
I ought to decide first why I wanted it. Well, 
I’ve got hundreds of reasons why I want this.” 

“Oh, I don’t suppose it will do you any 
harm, son, although it may softefi you, and I’m 


COMMENCEMENT 261 

afraid some day you’ll have to give in to the 
world as it exists. Supposing all of us who 
were discontented, who felt at times that we 
weren’t getting all we could out of life, de¬ 
cided we’d drop out. What would happen 
then?” 

“Oh, I don’t imagine there would be many 
vacancies/’ 

'‘All the world is callous and self-satisfied 
except yourself, isn’t it?” 

"But if it’s only a pose, why keep it up? 
Why not drop it ? All I can do ijs to try to live 
my own life so as to get the most out of it.” 

"And those of your wife and children,” said 
his father, grimly. 

"Yes,” broke in Mrs. Thrumm, "some day 
you’ll get married and then what will you do? 
You can’t bring up children on what you’d 
earn out of a bookstore.” 

"I’ll decide that when the time comes,” re¬ 
plied Gregory, with a suspicion of impatience. 

Gregory noticed that, as his father contin¬ 
ued his meal, his features seemed lifeless. His 
hand moved mechanically, conveying food to 
his mouth. Finally he dropped his fork and 
sat staring at the tablecloth. He looked up 
at Gregory as if to speak, but he turned away 
again. At length he spoke. 

"I don’t know, though, Gregory, that it 
makes much difference about the wife and 
children. Whatever you do, they will dis- 


262 


COMMENCEMENT 


cover that you were wrong. I’ve been prosper¬ 
ous, and both you and Catherine despise pros¬ 
perity, and you may be pretty sure that, if you 
are poor, your children will loathe poverty. 
If you don’t work hard, they’ll think you lazy; 
if you do, they’ll call you a tired business man. 
Perhaps you’re right, and selfishness is the 
only sane solution.” 

“Isn’t it bound to be selfish—any solution? 
Each one has to decide for himself.” 

“I was taught that selfishness was a vice, 
and yet sometimes it seems to be a virtue.” He 
smiled faintly. “However, I’ve made good 
soap.” 

Gregory sat pondering this enigmatic state¬ 
ment. 

“But what I can’t understand,” went on Mr. 
Thrumm, “is why two such different persons 
as you and Catherine should have reached the 
same conclusions about life in general. She is 
thoughtless and carefree and likes luxury. 
You carry the world around on your shoulders. 
I’m not surprised at your becoming a sort of 

hermit, but Catherine-He shook his 

head. “I’m afraid she’ll break down. Poor 
Kitten isn’t very strong.” 

“Remember, Rupert, we aren’t going to help 
her. She’s made her bed and she can lie in it.” 

Mr. Thrumm sighed. “At least our children 
don’t seek beds of roses.” 



COMMENCEMENT 263 

Among other things, Gregory bought a 
broom, a mop, dust rags, and several cans of 
paint. He surprised the clerk by insisting that 
he would carry his purchases with him instead 
of having them delivered. The bundles were 
heavy and unwieldy, but he finally managed 
to get them to the doorway of his newly ac¬ 
quired shop. Inside, he found a large piece of 
cardboard and on this he painted, as neatly as 
possible, the sign. Closed During Altera¬ 
tions. When he had hung this on the sign¬ 
board outside the shop, he locked himself in, 
removed his coat and vest, and began work. 

An afternoon several days later Joel Morn 
entered the shop to find the floor piled high 
with books, and most of the shelf-lined walls 
bare and empty. 

“Good Lord! Gregory, did you have an ex¬ 
plosion?” 

“No, Fm just arranging things—finding out 
what I’ve got.” 

“Arranging!” 

“I’ve washed out all the shelves—they were 
filthy—and now I’m dusting the books and 
putting them back in order and cataloguing 
them. It’s more of a job than I’d expected. 
Does Shakespeare go under poetry or drama?” 

“Better make a new section and call it poetic 
drama, or dramatic verse, or something of the 
sort. Are you living here now?” 

“No. I haven’t started fixing up the back 


COMMENCEMENT 


264 

room yet. Tve got to buy some furniture for 
it. I want to get this mess straightened out 
first.” 

‘'Any of the books worth anything*?” 

“I’ve found a half a dozen first editions^— 
he kept those and a few other valuable books 
over in that glass-covered shelf, but the rest 

-” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t 

know whether they’re worth a nickel or ten 
dollars. As soon as I get them in order. I’ll see 
what I can make out of the catalogues.” 

“Where’s that picture of mine*?” 

“I put it in the back room while I’m fixing 
up.” 

“When is the grand opening^” 

“I thought I’d be ready next week, but I’m 
not so certain now. I’m not going to open up 
till I’ve arranged things and know just what 
I have.” 

“I’m going to look out back. Do you 
mind?’ 

“No. Go ahead.” Gregory picked up a book, 
dusted it, studied the fly-leaf and title page, 
and made out an index card. He looked up at 
the dozen shelves he had filled and at the 
dozens more about the room. He sighed and 
picked up another book. Again and again he 
had almost decided that it was foolishness to 
catalogue all the books. His predecessor had 
not been so painstaking. But he doggedly 
continued his labor. He worked feverishly, 



COMMENCEMENT 265 

as if he must open the shop at the earliest pos¬ 
sible date. The previous day he had spent 
twelve hours in the store. 

Joel returned. “Why are you going to buy 
furniture for that room*?” 

“The stuff that’s there isn’t any good.” 

“Nothing the matter with it that I can see— 
a little paint and a few nails would fix it up all 
right.” ^ 

“But it looks so dilapidated.” 

“It isn’t a bridal suite, I’ll admit, but I 
shouldn’t think of buying any more.” 

“The bed is only springs and a mattress on 
two packing boxes.” 

“Well, paint the boxes, and then get a cover 
to throw over the whole business—and paint 
the furniture the same color—very artistic and 
Bohemian, all that. It’s cheap anyway.” 

“Do you really think it would look all 
right?” 

Joel looked quizzically at Gregory. “I 
hope this shop isn’t going to become a den of 
iniquity. It’s either that, I’m afraid, or else 
you’re getting set for a wedding.” 

“I just want to have it looking well.” 
Gregory knocked the dust from a book and 
studied its cover. 

Joel saw some cans of paint standing in the 
corner and crossed the room to examine them. 
“Got a brush?” he asked, finally. 

“Yes, over on that shelf.” 


266 


COMMENCEMENT 


“Do you mind if I try painting some of that 
junk in there?’’ 

“No, not at all.” When Joel left the room, 
Gregory sat for some moments staring out of 
the window. Then, with obvious effort, he 
drew his attention back to his work. 

Several hours later he waded through the 
litter of books to answer the ringing of the bell. 
Catherine stepped into the room. 

“Where’s Joel?” 

“Oh.” Gregory had entirely forgotten his 
caller. “Why, he’s out back, I think. He was 
going to paint something.” He led Catherine 
to the room behind the bookshop. In the door¬ 
way they both stopped, and their eyes widened. 

Joel Morn sat cross-legged before a large 
dresser, shiny with a coat of dark-blue paint. 
In the center of the middle drawer-panel he 
was painting a design of scarlet and purple 
poppies. Gregory glanced around the room. 
The chairs, the packing boxes beneath the beds, 
had all been painted, and all bore a similar de¬ 
sign, daubed boldly in crude, vivid colors). 
Catherine was the first to speak. 

“If you’re going to take up interior decor¬ 
ating, Joel, why not start at home?” 

He dashed in a few splotches to fill out the 
space. “I never thought of it before. You 
know, this is lots of fun. I have an idea for 
that old dining-room table of ours. But first 
I’m going to cover these walls.” 


COMMENCEMENT 


267 

Gregory glanced around at the whitewashed 
walls and imagined them covered with poppy 
designs. 

“Did Gregory ask you to do all this?” 

“No, but it had to be done, and I thought 
I’d like to try it. Like it, Gregory?” He rose 
to his feet and stretched. 

“Why, yes—I like it.” 

“You lie. But you will, after you get used 
to it. I knew that if I let you go and buy new 
furniture, you’d come back with golden oak 
or bird’s-eye maple or something like that. 
You know, I think the trouble with you is 
that you’ve never seen any color. You live 
with brilliant colors awhile, and you’ll change. 
It’ll give you courage. It’ll inspire you to 
fresh strength. If Aunt Annie had a Gaugin 
hanging on her wall instead of a lot of Watts, 
she’d be a different person. That’s just what 
you need—color, and lots of it. I’m going to 
fill the room with it. I’m going to prove that 
I’m right. There won’t be any place for pale 
sentimentality here after I’ve finished.” He 
paused and stood with his hands on his hips 
as he stared at the walls. “How much do you 
want to spend on this place—this room, I 
mean?” 

“Why, I don’t know.” Gregory looked 
helplessly at Catherine. 

“Oh, let him alone, Joel. It’s his room. 
Let him fix it up the way he wants to.” 


268 


COMMENCEMENT 


“No, I want to help him. He needs it. 
How much*? Can you afford fifty dollars?” 

“Yes.” 

“All right. Give it to me. Have you got 
it now?” 

Gregory got out his pocketbook and counted 
out the amount. 

“Fine. Now don’t worry about this place, 
ril be back in the morning. Come on, Kate. 
I want to do some shopping.” 

The next morning, when Gregory returned 
to the bookstore, he found the door to the back 
room locked. As he irritably rattled the door 
knob, he remembered that he had given Joel a 
key to the store the night before. 

“Is that you, Gregory?” 

“Oh, I didn’t know you were in there, Joel. 
Did you lock the door?” 

“Yes. You can’t come in till it’s all finished. 
If Catherine comes, tell her to call out, and I’ll 
let her in.” 

Gregory returned to his work of cataloguing 
the books but he did not work as zestfully as he 
had heretofore. He had planned furnishing 
that rear room to his own taste, quietly, com¬ 
fortably. And now it was to become a wild, 
restless sort of place. It would look like a 
tearoom, he feared. He was angry with him¬ 
self that he had not told Morn to leave it 
alone. Courage. That was the quality Morn 
planned to instil in him through color. But 


COMMENCEMENT 269 

why had Morn suspected that he was lacking 
in courage? Gregory sat motionless among 
the books. His plans for the room were crum¬ 
bling. The dreams that had been with him 
while he feverishly worked at arranging the 
Store were fading. 

Catherine came, and he told her briefly of 
Morn’s instructions. He noticed that she was 
carrying a large bundle. He picked up a book 
and thoughtfully studied it. The title included 
the phrase ‘‘interior decorating,” and he turned 
the pages slowly, looking at the pictures and 
reading a line here and there. . a slender 

silver vase holding a« single, long-stemmed 
flower is often pleasing . . He slammed 
the book shut and picked up an index card. A 
lot of damned rot! Oh, well, if he did not like 
the effect, he could count the fifty dollars lost 
and carry out his own plans. 

Catherine came through the hall and looked 
in at Gregory from the doorway. “You 
wouldn’t know the room now, Greg.” 

“Wouldn’t I?” There was no interest in 
his tone. 

“You’re not bubbling over with enthusiasm, 
are you?” 

“Do you think you’re going to like it?” 

“I do.” She walked into the room and 
leaned against a corner of one of the long 
tables. “Joel didn’t talk aboitt anything else 
all evening. It was all I could do to keep him 


COMMENCEMENT 


270 

from coming down here after dinner. As it 
was, he got here before seven this morning.” 

“It’s going to be awfully loud, isn’t it?” 

“Are you afraid of it?” 

“Why should I be? The question is 
whether it will look well or not. If he liked it 
so well, I should think he would have tried it 
out at home.” 

“The idea never appealed to him before. I 
wouldn’t be afraid, Greg. He’s a great artist.” 

Gregory said nothing. 

“You don’t believe it, I know. There aren’t 
many people who do. But you wait.” 

“He’s your husband.” 

“Don’t get disagreeable about it, Greg. He 
likes you. He said you were one of the few 
people he had ever met whom he wanted to 
have like his pictures. He knows you don’t 
now.” 

“Then why does he fill my rooms with 
them?” 

“To give you a chance, I suppose.” 

“It might work better if he did it more 
gradually.” 

“Why don't you tell him that?” 

“Oh, I don’t want to—to-” 

“Hurt his feelings?” She laughed. “You 
don’t know Joel. He knows just what he 
wants to do and he does it. What people say 
about him only proves to him that people are 
stupid.” She moved away from the table. 



COMMENCEMENT 271 

‘That’s the sort of courage he meant when he 
was talking about what color would do to you.” 
She paused in the doorway. “I’m going on 
home to get lunch ready. Want to come up 
and eat with us*?” 

“No, thanks. I’m just going to grab a bite 
near here somewhere. How do you like house¬ 
work r’ 

“I hate it.” 

“As soon as this*?” 

“I hated it from the first day I tried it, but 

-” she shrugged her shoulders-“there 

are other things I hate worse.” 

At the end of the following week Gregory 
finished setting the bookstore in order. The 
books were neatly, alphabetically arranged un¬ 
der their respective departments. He had given 
two coats of paint to the floor and washed the 
windows. In accordance with his predecessor’s 
system the four large tables in the center of 
the room were each covered with books of a 
uniform price. But, despite the tidiness of the 
place, as Gregory stood in the doorway and sur¬ 
veyed his work, he was not without many mis¬ 
givings. There might be rare books among the 
cheap lots, or vice versa. Stepping abruptly to 
his desk by the window he picked up one of the 
commercial cards he had had printed and 
slipped it into an envelope. On the envelope 
he wrote the name Jonathan Frail and the 
man’s address. What if Mr. Frail did show it 




COMMENCEMENT 


272 

to Leonora? She would laugh, and that would 
be the end of it. He picked up his hat and 
went out to mail the card. 

When he returned, Catherine and Joel were 
inspecting the shop. “It looks clean anyway,” 
observed Joel, as Gregory silently placed his 
hat on the desk. 

“Yes.” Gregory hesitated. “It ought to 
be,” he added, feeling that he should be more 
affable. 

“You can look at the back room any time 
you want to.” 

“He’s afraid to,” suggested Catherine. 

Gregory turned and led the way through the 
hall. He opened the door and stepped into 
the room quickly, before allowing his eyes to 
take in the full effect of Joel’s work. The first 
thing he noticed was that the walls were not 
covered with scarlet and purple poppies; they 
were a plain pale green. A scarlet cover on the 
bed caught his eyes. The woodwork had been 
painted blue to match the bed, and blue cur¬ 
tains framed each window. 

“I just got the rugs back to-day,” said Morn. 
“They don’t look half bad since they’ve been 
dyed.” 

“Are those the rugs that were here before?” 

“Yes.” 

“They ought to satisfy you, Greg.” said 
Catherine. “Or is plain black too mournful 
for you?” 


COMMENCEMENT 273 

Instead of replying Gregory opened the 
door and peered into the small kitchen. 

“Oh, that’s safe.” Joel grunted. “So’s the 
bathroom. You can decorate those yourself.” 

Gregory closed the door and turned back to 
the living room. 

“I know what he’s thinking.” Morn looked 
appraisingly at Gregory. “He thinks that be¬ 
cause it’s colorful it isn’t masculine. He knows 
what his college friends would call him if they 
saw this room. I tell you, what you need is 
courage. You talk vaguely of beauty and in¬ 
dividuality, but you’re ashamed when you find 
them. A man ought to live in ugly surround¬ 
ings, or, if he doesn’t, he ought to be able to 
blame the beauty on a woman—his mother or 
his wife. You think the world is all wrong, 
but you’re afraid to thumb your nose at it. 
When you hestitated about buying out the 
store, you know as well as I do that the thing 
that stuck in your mind was the awful ques¬ 
tion, What will people thinkColor is what 
you need. Here it is; now absorb some of it. 
Don’t worry about the room. It’s damn good- 
looking. You can curse in this room just as 
well as in the one you would have made. Try 
it and see.” 

Gregory laughed and successfully made the 
effort. 

“See*? And another thing: are you going to 


COMMENCEMENT 


274 

put that picture up in your shop?’' Joel 
pointed to the canvas standing in the corner. 

“Yes, if you want me to.” 

“The price on it, in case anyone asks you,' 
is five hundred dollars.” 

“Five hundred dollars!” 

“If I don’t think my pictures are valuable, 
no one else will. That is the price.” 

Gregory tiptoed to the door and stood listen¬ 
ing. “Don’t you hear some one moving around 
in there?” He nodded toward the store. 

“Yes, there’s some one in there.” 

“I wonder who it can be.” 

“Have you hung your sign out yet?” 

“Yes—^just a few minutes ago.” 

“Well, maybe it’s a customer. You’d bet¬ 
ter go in.” 

“A customer!” Suddenly Gregory realized 
the fact that he was a shopkeeper and that hi^ 
store was something more than a sort of puzzle 
to be arranged and untangled. He gave a twist 
to his necktie, ran his fingers through his hair, 
and stepped through the hall into the store. 

“How much are these two books?” An 
elderly woman smiled sweetly at him as she put 
the books into his hand. 

Nervously Gregory turned to the fly-leaf of 
each, added the totals together, and, in a husky, 
unnatural tone, spoke the price. 

“Oh, I didn’t think they would be as expen¬ 
sive as that!” The woman looked her surprise. 


COMMENCEMENT 


275 

Gregory knew that he ought to say some¬ 
thing; that he ought to justify himself for ask¬ 
ing this price, but he could think of no reason 
for their value. “They are in very good con¬ 
dition,’’ he muttered, deprecatingly. 

“But they aren’t worth a great deal more 
than that new.” The woman smiled sweetly 
again. “I’ll wait and think it over. May I 
look about 

“As much as you wish.” 

Gregory sat at his desk and glowered at the 
woman. What right had she to come into the 
store and act as if he were trying to cheat her*? 
Would he have to go through this with every 
customer? He picked up the books and 
glanced at the figures in the corners of the fly¬ 
leaves. He jotted down the prices on a piece 
of paper and added them together. No, there 
had been no mistake. The woman turned from 
one of the shelves with a third book in her 
hand. 

“And how much is this one?” 

Gregory quoted a price lower than that 
marked in the book. 

“I’ll take that, and-” She picked up 

the other two volumes from his desk and 
glanced through them. “Oh, I suppose I 
might as well get these, too. Will you please 
wrap them up?” 

Gregory realized with horror that he had no 
wrapping-paper. He opened his mouth and 



COMMENCEMENT 


276 

closed it. He stood up, and, with the books 
under his arm, made for the back room. 

“Some wrapping paper, quick! Is there any 
around anywhere? I never thought.” 

“Where’s that the rugs came in?” Joel 
whirled about and rushed to the kitchen. 

The paper was found, and, after the bundle 
was wrapped, a search was made for some 
string. Three short pieces were tied together 
and wound about the package. As Gregory 
returned to the shop he looked dubiously at 
the parcel, and, pausing in the hallway, he took 
out his knife and cut the ends off the knots. 
As he handed the bundle to his customer he did 
not dare to look at her. He accepted the money 
she gave him and was about to stow it in his 
pocket without looking at it, when he saw that 
change was desired. Suppose he could not 
make it? His hand trembled as he reached in 
his pocket. Fortunately he had just enough. 
He handed it to the woman and held the door 
open for her as she passed out. When she was 
gone he took out his handkerchief and wiped 
his forehead. 

Joel put his head into the room. “Is she 
gone?” 

“Yes. A dollar and seventy-five cents’ worth 
of books sold. And now, before some one else 
comes. I’m going out and buy some wrapping 
paper and string and get a pocketful of 
change.” 


COMMENCEMENT 277 

“Go ahead. Well keep store for you while 
you’re gone.” 

When Gregory returned, the first object 
which met his eye was Joel’s picture. It hung 
in a conspicuous place opposite the doorway, 
where no one coming into the shop could fail 
to see it. In a way, the picture fascinated 
Gregory. When he had first seen it he had 
taken it into the back room and stood it face 
to the wall. An hour later he left his work and 
went out to take another look at the canvas. 
He had not yet become used to it, but his ac¬ 
tive dislike had given place to a faint realiza¬ 
tion that it might, after all, express something 
of power. “Victorian Scene,” Joel had 
named it. The picture represented a meager 
woman of pale green complexion and dispro¬ 
portionately wide and staring eyes. Her 
drooping, tenuous hand rested on a table be¬ 
side her, and on the table stood a bowl of 
crudely gorgeous and palpable fruit. The fruit 
was covered by a polychromatic glass dome. 
One did not see the woman at first glance, so 
intense was the color of the fruit. 

“Good place, don’t you think 

“It stands out well there.” 

“That’s exactly why I picked that spot. It’s 
the most valuable object you have. Remem¬ 
ber, if you sell it, you get fifty per cent— 
two hundred and fifty dollars.” 

“What time is it, Joel?” asked Catherine. 


278 COMMENCEMENT 

“Half past five. We’re inviting you to din¬ 
ner to-night, Gregory.” 

“I really can’t come. I have an engagement 
to-night. I’m awfully sorry.” 

“Making preparations to fill up the bridal 
chamber back there 

Gregory laughed joylessly. 

“When are you going to move down here, 
Greg^” asked Catherine. 

“In the morning. I’m glad father and 
mother are away. It makes it easier to leave.” 

“Father had to give up the log cabin, or 
whatever it was, in the Adirondacks, didn’t 
he?’ 

“Yes. Mother said she wanted to get 
cheered up after all the upheavals.” 

“Poor dad.” Catherine sighed. 

“Poor dad nothing!” interjected Joel. If 
he’s under hack, it’s his own fault. Anyway, 
be probably only thinks he wants to get off in 
the wilds. He’i.die if he had to. You both 
jump on your mother. I like her better, any¬ 
way. She told me frankly what she thought of 
me for marrying you when I didn’t have any 
money, and from her point of view she’s right. 
Come on, Kate, there’s some one looking in the 
window. We don’t want to scare off cus¬ 
tomers.” Joel paused in the doorway. “Don’t 
start painting out the decorations yet. Give 
them a couple of weeks’ trial. They’ll save 


COMMENCEMENT 279 

you from going to rot among all these old 
books/’ 


Gregory stood on the curb and watched one 
of the ground-floor windows of the apartment 
house opposite. He finished his cigarette and 
lit a second from the stub of the first. Now 
that he was certain Georgia had returned, that 
he had only to ring the bell to see her, his 
doubts accumulated. He forgot that it was 
for her he had been working during the past 
few weeks. Was he really certain it was she 
who had left him this vast loneliness*? To see 
her again might be the preparation for a sec¬ 
ond castastrophe. Carried away by love, by 
desire, or whatever it might be, there was the 
possibility that he would be forced back to the 
world he had renounced. Color will give you 
the courage you need. Morn certainly pos¬ 
sessed courage, but Morn also had a purpose, 
a definite end that excused his ignoring all 
else, his flinging aside obstacles. One could 
not give the success of a second-hand book¬ 
store as an all-excusing purpose. 

Gregory straightened up and snapped his 
cigarette into the street. There was purpose 
enough in making his own life vivid, full. 
There would never be any more compromise. 
Georgia’s eyes were narrow and pointed, be¬ 
neath her red hair. Her lips showed that she 


28o commencement 

thought him contemptible. His lack of 
strength had coincided with his lack of purpose. 
She must know that that was gone. He did 
love her; there could be no doubt of it. Leo¬ 
nora had faded to an old romance; Georgia’s 
memory became more and more colorful. He 
crossed the street, entered the house, and rang 
the door bell. 

“Oh!” Georgia’s mouth opened and closed 
mechanically. “I didn’t expect you. Come 
in.” There was no trace of her former anger. 

“If you have any other engagement,” mur¬ 
mured Gregory, “I- 

“Oh, no! Sit down, won’t you?’ She took 
his hat and placed it on a table in the corner. 
They sat on opposite sides of the small, con¬ 
ventionally furnished room. 

“Have you been back long^?” he asked. He 
was trying to master the resentment he felt at 
her casual, unruffled manner. 

“About ten days. I have another job now.” 
She smiled wryly. “Mr. Blooker got it for me. 
What are you doing now^” 

“I’m—working.” Gregory rubbed his hands 
together. “Do you mind if I smoke"?” 

“No, go ahead.” 

Gregory lit a cigarette, took several puffs, 
and sat staring at the lengthening ash. 

“It’s foolish of us to sit here talking about 
nothing,” he began, jerkily. “You know as 
well as I do that I didn’t come to pass the time 



COMMENCEMENT 


281 

of day.” He stood up and walked nervously 
down the room and back. “I have several 
things I want to tell you. In the first place, 
that day after I left you, I went and broke off 
my—that other engagement. You see, even 
after our quarrel, I had no intention of going 
back. That’s finished, no matter what hap¬ 
pens. After that I drifted along for several 
weeks and had a rotten time of it. Then one 
day my sister’s husband—he’s an artist—said 
that he knew of a second-hand bookstore for 
sale. I bought that, and, up till to-day I’ve 
been fixing it up. You may wonder why, if I 
intended coming at all, I put it off till to-night. 
I wanted to get things straightened out first. 
I couldn’t come or write you while I was drift¬ 
ing. I wanted to. Anyway, I’m a shopkeeper 
now, and I think I’m going to like it.” He put 
out his cigarette and stood looking down at her. 

“ 1 ^- You’ve probably been thinking things 

over, too. You’ve had more than the two 
weeks you wanted. But I resolved when I 
came to-night to be absolutely frank with you, 
and I’m going to be.” He abruptly turned his 
eyes from her hair. ‘T suppose you think I’m 
cool and business-like about it. I can’t help it. 
I can’t raise false hopes again. I mean I used 
to do it to myself,” he added hastily, and then 
pressed his lips tightly together. “No, that 
wasn’t what I meant. It’s hard to be really 
frank. I—well, I did raise false hopes when 



282 


COMMENCEMENT 


I was engaged before,” he said, doggedly. 
‘‘And then found I didn’t believe in them my¬ 
self. I tried to swallow some one else’s hopes 
and aspirations. Maybe that was the whole 
trouble. Anyway, I own this second-hand 
bookstore with a stock of about five thousand 
books. As I said, I opened the store to-day. 
My total receipts were one dollar and seventy- 
five cents, of which I spent one dollar and a 
half on wrapping paper and string. I have 
eight hundred dollars in the bank and-” 

“How much cash on hand?” 

As Gregory’s eyes met Georgia’s, he could 
not help laughing. “Oh, it sounds silly, but, 
before anything else, I want you to know the 
facts. My future is as uncertain as that of a 
month-old baby. But then, whose is really 
certain? On the other hand, mine is certain to 
some extent. I find I haven’t any desire to 
make a lot of money. I’ve heard too much 
about dollars and cents since I left college. It’s 
funny. You know, as I think of it, what 
started me toward deciding all this was your 
asking me that day on the ferryboat whether 
I’d like to have a yacht like the one we saw. 
I realized that I hated all that sort of thing.” 
He turned suddenly toward her. “When I 
think of that evening, I wish I hadn’t said all 
this. I should have promised to do anything 
for you. What I’ve said sounds so selfish. But 
you will have to decide that.” He clasped his 



COMMENCEMENT 


283 

hands behind his back. “I still love you—• 
more than ever. I adore you.” With his eyes 
on the floor he awaited her answer. 

“I love you.” She said it calmly, as a mat¬ 
ter of fact. 'If I hadn’t quite before, I should 
now. If you had popped up waving a glorious 

future-” She shrugged her shoulders. “I 

was afraid you’d do something like that, and 
I knew how quickly it would wear off. When 
_» 

By this time Gregory had fully realized the 
import of her words. He crossed the room 
swiftly, dropped to the arm of her chair, and 
buried his head in her hair. "Please don’t let’s 
talk any more now. Kiss me.” 

She threw back her head and drew him down 
into her arms. 

It was a poignant repose that closed Greg¬ 
ory’s eyes as their lips met. He was conscious 
of the’ fact that his muscles relaxed as if from 
long tension. He tangled his fingers in her 
hair and fastened his lips more tightly upon 
hers. His emotion welled up in a sob as he felt 
Georgia’s fingers pressing against his back. His 
eyelids tightened and relaxed. His breath was 
expelled in a sudden sigh, and his muscles be¬ 
came abruptly taut in an effort to strain her 
body more tightly against his own. . . . 

"When—^how soon will you marry me?” 
Gregory recalled Mr. Prail’s advice and smiled 




COMMENCEMENT 


284 

reminiscently. ‘‘Marry me to-morrow at four- 
thirty,” he said. 

“Fm afraid I can’t. You see, now that I 
have a new job, I can’t get away any time I 
want to—or at least I shouldn’t like to ask for 
the time off.” 

“Are you going to keep your job?” 

“Don’t you want me to?” 

“Why, I don’t know. I- Do you want 

to?” 

“For a time, yes.” 

“Then that’s the answer, I guess. It’s for 
you to decide. I shouldn’t ask you to do one 
thing or the other in a case like this. It’s funny 
your being in business and liking it, and my 
hating it so.” 

“Oh, it’s different! I’m not expected to 
have a future, and it’s rather fun doing things. 
I don’t have to climb the ladder. I can do my 
work, and that’s an end of it. I get paid, and 
no one intereferes. After you get the store run¬ 
ning, maybe I’ll stay home and help you out.” 

“But we haven’t decided yet when we’re go¬ 
ing to get married. If you can’t get off in the 
afternoon, perhaps we could do it during your 
lunch hour.” 

“All right. Meet me at twelve-thirty.” 

“Do—do you always agree to things so 
readily?” 

She laughed. “No, I seldom do, but you 
see I happen to feel about this the way you do.” 



COMMENCEMENT 


285 


He kissed her. 

‘‘And besides,’’ she continued, “you’ve swept 
me off my feet.” 

It was Gregory’s turn to laugh, and he did 
so, heartily. “I never thought I should have 
anyone say anything like that to me.” He 
stood up and slipped his hands into his pockets. 
“Are we really going to get married to¬ 
morrow^ You’re fooling, aren’t you?” He 
turned suddenly toward her. “Are you willing 
to live in back of the bookstore? What’ll you 

do with this place? What-” He stopped 

suddenly. “Answer the first question. Will 
you marry me to-morrow?” 

“Yes.” 

“That’s enough, then. We won’t answer the 
others until after to-morrow noon. If I let 
myself go on worrying. I’ll probably end by 
persuading you not to marry me at all.” 

“I think I could make you change your mind 
if I tried hard.” She spoke banteringly. 

“You’d better try it, then, just to find out 
that you are mistaken.” 

“All right. What would you do if this book¬ 
store failed?” 

“Get something else to do.” 

“What?” 

“I’ll decide that when the time comes. I 
can’t pick out now all the things I may do the 
rest of my life.” 



286 


COMMENCEMENT 


“Supposing I should start nagging at you 
to make more money?” 

“Fll answer that question by another. Sup¬ 
posing I should start beating you?” 

“Oh, well, you’ll probably get discouraged 
soon enough, anyway, so I shan’t start giving 
you reasons. I love you, Gregory.” 

He took her hands and drew her, gently at 
first, then savagely, into his arms. 

At shortly after one o’clock the next day 
Gregory Thrumm and Georgia Rossby were 
married at the City Hall, New York. Each 
of them sent off a few telegrams; then Georgia 
returned to her office, and Gregory returned to 
his shop. From time to time, when there were 
no customers in the shop, Gregory would walk 
back through the hall, open the door to his 
room, and stand gazing meditatively about 
him. 


CHAPTER TEN 


Not many days elapsed before Gregory was 
made to realize the seriousness of his offense to 
society as represented by those most closely 
concerned in the matter of his marriage. As 
a result of his telegram to them, his mother 
and father broke off their vacation and returned 
to New York. They arrived at the store late 
in the afternoon, just before Georgia’s return 
from work, and found Gregory busy with a 
customer. They stood, ill at ease, while Greg¬ 
ory, even more embarrassed than his parents, 
wrapped a package and counted out change. 

“Is she here, Gregory demanded Mrs. 
Thrumm as soon as the customer had left. 

“No. She’s at work.” 

“Work! What sort of work?” 

“She—she’s a stenographer.” As he spoke 
he understood just what the word, unadorned, 
must convey to his mother. And yet he refused 
to attempt explaining to her that Georgia was 
not just an ordinary stenographer. He would 
not acknowledge any basis for snobbery. Pay¬ 
ing little attention to his mother’s expostula¬ 
tions, he led her and his father through the hall 
to the combined bed, dining, and living room. 

287 





V 


288 COMMENCEMENT 

“But Gregory, how did it happen? Tell me 
about it/’ 

He explained that he had known Georgia at 
the Blooker Advertising Agency and that he 
had there fallen in love with her. 

“But that must have been while you were 
still engaged to that other girl.” 

“I broke that off when I found—when this 
began.” It annoyed him that he should speak 
so impersonally of Georgia, but he could not 
bring himself to frame his words otherwise 
before his mother. Her attitude could be 
faced comfortably only with cold, impersonal 
facts. 

“If you knew so long ago as that, why 
didn’t you say something about it?” 

“I didn’t know I was to be married until the 
day before it happened.” 

“And what are you going to do now? Go 
on being a shopkeeper? Does your wife like 
that idea? If I’d known what was to happen, 
I’d have put my foot down when you told about 
this bookstore. I can’t understand it, Gregory! 
I can’t!” 

With considerable trepidation Gregory 
watched his mother look around at the furnish¬ 
ings of the room. His father had been doing 
little else since he entered, and Gregory knew 
that sooner or later the exotic coloring would 
be criticized. He fortified himself by remem- 


COMMENCEMENT 289 

bering Georgia’s delight when she had first be- 
held the room. 

‘‘Did your wife fix up this place, Gregory?” 

“No.” 

“Well, who did, then? You didn’t, did 
you?” 

“Joel did it.” 

“Joel! Catherine’s husband? I might 
have known it. I hoped that one of my chil¬ 
dren might have had a little sense. Oh, I 
can’t understand it!” she repeated. 

“Do you like these fixings, Gregory?” Mr. 
Thrumm spoke for the first time. 

“Yes.” 

Mr. Thrumm raised his eyebrows and turned 
to examine the front of the bureau. The con¬ 
versation dragged. From time to time Greg¬ 
ory’s mother burst out with some new question 
or grievance, and thereupon became freshly ex¬ 
asperated at Gregory’s monosyllabic reply. 
What she expected to result from this inter¬ 
view, other than a few additional shreds of 
information, she obviously did not know. She 
was making Gregory bitterly resentful, but she 
herself would have been the first to protest if 
he had agreed with her and decided that it 
would be better to leave the girl he had mar¬ 
ried. Yet she drove ahead, seeming to seek 
some satisfying point to which she might cling 
in her bewilderment. 


COMMENCEMENT 


290 

“Are you making money out of the store*?’’ 
asked Mr. Thrumm. 

“Not yet. It’s only been open a week.” 

“It looks to me as though your wife had to 
work whether she wants to or not,” stated his 
mother. 

“She wants to.” 

“Well, you’ve made your own bed and I 
guess you’ll have to lie in it, son,” Mr. 
Thrumm pursed his lips. 

The outer door rattled, and a moment later 
Georgia stepped into the room. Gregory stood 
up, greeted her self-consciously, and introduced 
her to his mother and father. He watched her, 
as he knew his mother and father were doing, 
as she took off her hat and deftly arranged her 
hair. Her coolness gave him confidence. He 
intuitively felt that his father would like 
Georgia. 

They talked politely of the marriage, and 
Gregory saw how foolish had been his misgiv¬ 
ings lest his mother should reiterate her petu¬ 
lant disapproval, her threat to withhold the 
usual penny. He did not want money from 
them—he had not expected any—but he found 
that, despite his resolutions to be indifferent, he 
deeply feared a break with his family—even 
their disapproval. Under the powerful con¬ 
straint of politeness, the remainder of the call 
passed smoothly. Mr. and Mrs. Thrumm went 
away, leaving behind them an invitation to 


COMMENCEMENT 


291 


dinner and a suggestion that the newly mar¬ 
ried couple decide what they would like for a 
wedding present. Gregory closed the outer 
door, locked it, and put out the lights in the 
shop. He walked back through the hall and 
stood in the doorway, watching Georgia ar¬ 
ranging dishes on the table. 

“Would you like to go out for dinner to¬ 
night^” he asked. 

“No. Why should weWe haven’t enough 
money to go squandering it like that.” 

Gregory recalled his mother’s flat statement: 
“It looks to me as though your wife had to 
work, whether she wants to or not.” His cer¬ 
tainty was wavering precariously. He sus¬ 
pected an implied reproach in Georgia’s words. 
He sat on the edge of the bed and moodily 
watched her setting the table. As she did not 
speak, his gloom deepened. The happiness of 
the past few days could not last, of course. He 
had foreseen that. Perhaps from now on he 
and Georgia would gradually become further 
and further separated. 

“Your mother and father seem to have done 
something to you, Gregory. I suppose before 
I came they convinced you that you had made 
a great mistake.” 

“No, it was you who made the mistake.” 

“Well, I don’t seem very gloomy about it.”' 

“You aren’t contented.” 


292 COMMENCEMENT 

She turned and faced him. “What is it, 
Gregory^ What’s happened 

“Nothing.” 

“You know there’s something. What is it*? 
Was it because I said I didn’t want to go out 
to dinner*?” 

“You said we didn’t have enough money— 
not that you didn’t want to.” 

She crossed the room and sat down beside 
him. “Your family upset you, I know, but 
that’s no reason that you should take it out on 
me. It isn’t any sudden discovery that we 
haven’t any money to squander. I knew we 
wouldn’t have when I married you. I don’t 
want to go out to dinner. It’s more fun to eat 
in—alone. Or it was up to to-night.” 

Without a word Gregory turned and took 
Georgia in his arms. It was not until nearly an 
hour later that they finally sat opposite each 
other at the dinner table. 

Mr. and Mrs. Thrumm had paid their call on 
a Thursday evening, and the following Satur¬ 
day afternoon, shortly after Georgia returned 
from business, a strange man and woman 
entered the bookstore and walked determinedly 
up to Gregory, who was seated behind his desk. 

“Are you Gregory Thrumm^” The man 
was fleshy and red skinned. Despite the firm¬ 
ness of his speech, he looked nervously around 
the store to make sure he was not being ob¬ 
served. 


COMMENCEMENT 


2^3 

Gregory stood up. ‘‘Yes, I’m Gregory 
Thrumm.” 

“Well, I’m John Rossby, Georgia’s father. 
Is Georgia here^?” 

“Why, yes! How do you do?” Gregory 
smiled nervously at the man and his wife. 
Neither of them spoke. “I—I’ll go and call 
her. Or no, you come through with me. She’s 
back here.” He led the couple through the 
hall. After the greetings were over and he 
had been formally presented to his parents-in- 
law, he excused himself and, with profound 
relief, went back to his desk. It would be bet¬ 
ter to let them talk alone with Georgia first, 
he decided. They would be able to speak more 
freely. He made a grimace as he remembered 
the call his own mother and father had made. 
It was evident that Mr. and Mrs. Rossby were 
not pleased with the news they had received. 
What would they think of the room back 
there? Gregory stared at the rows of book¬ 
shelves. He and Georgia stood alone. Either 
they must surrender to the general ideals that 
were supposed to guide life, or they must stand 
against most of their friends, the people nearest 
them. On either side compromise could be 
only defeat. The other side would never— 
could never—give in, yet he was expected to. 
It was always he who was supposed to submit, 
to repress himself. He had really done nothing 
very unusual. They had married, everything 


294 


COMMENCEMENT 


was according to the fixed ritual, yet- He 

heard voices coming from the back room. He 
strained to listen, but he could hear no words. 
If only he could drive out the fear that Georgia 
might be drawn over to the other side. 

There had been one pleasant call since they 
had married. Catherine and Joel had con¬ 
gratulated them heartily. There had been no 
constraint that evening. Then it had been easy 
to laugh at the warnings and solemn head- 
shakings of those in the rut. What was it that 
was wanted? Money; nothing else. A re¬ 
spectable position and a large salary. That 
only was lacking—the wherewithal to possess 
a regulation apartment and a servant. Only 
Aunt Annie would applaud. She would prob¬ 
ably be along soon with a bland smile and a 
check. He did not want her money; he hon¬ 
estly and whole heartedly did not. She would 
object to JoeFs decorations—^perhaps even 
to the shop. They were not poor in a quite re¬ 
spectable way. He stood up and walked up 
and down the room. Why should he want 
those people back there to like him? There was 
no adequate reason, and yet he did. He knew 
he would be unhappy if they patently showed 
their disapproval. They were Georgia’s father 
and mother, and their opinion was bound to 
have some weight with her. She might begin 
to have her doubts. Oh, a year would probably 



COMMENCEMENT 


29,5 

find him back in one of the pigeon-holes—any¬ 
thing to keep Georgia. He adored her. 

When Gregory finally closed up the shop and 
went back to the living room, he saw Georgia's 
mother daubing her eyes with a hankerchief. 
Mr. Rossby was standing with his plump 
hands behind his back. He was staring out of 
the window. 

‘1—I hope you're a good boy," said Mrs. 
Rossby, looking up at him, “but it does all 
seem so queer. I don't know what to make of 
it." She was a spare, wrinkled woman with 
faded blue eyes. Her fingers, he noticed, were 
long and capable, like Georgia's, but the 
mother's had become bony and misshapen. She 
was a faded, elongated Georgia, except for her 
hair. That Georgia had inherited from her 
stocky father. “Anyway," continued Mrs. 
Rossby, with an unexpected flash of cheerful¬ 
ness, “you didn't marry Georgia for her 
money." 

Grregory smiled. 

“What do your folks say about it, young 
man?" Mr. Rossby had turned from the win¬ 
dow, and, as he spoke, he drew his leathery 
neck out of his clean and obviously uncom¬ 
fortable collar. 

“They were surprised, of course." 

“Humph! The store in front there don't 
look very busy." 


296 COMMENCEMENT 

‘I’ve only just opened it—about a week 
ago.’’ 

“Well, if you don’t get more custom than 
you seem to have now, I’d say it would close up 
in a few more weeks.” 

“Don’t worry about it, papa. Did you ever 
see a bookstore with a crowd around it^?” 

“No. That’s just it. I don’t see how anyone 
ever makes a decent living out of selling 
books—^unless he goes from house to house 
and makes people buy. And what’s more, I 
don’t see how a man can sit by and see his 
wife going out every day to work.” 

“Georgia doesn’t have to work unless she 
wants to,” said Gregory, turning very red. 

“You let me go out and work, papa. Why 
shouldn’t my husband*?” 

“I never got a cent you made. I did every¬ 
thing I could not to let you come to New York. 
If your husband can’t manage you now he bet¬ 
ter give up.” 

“If Georgia is happier with something to do, 
I don’t see why she shouldn’t work,” retorted 
Gregory, rather hotly. 

“I never heard tell of a woman keeping 
house who didn’t have enough to keep her 
busy,” rejoined Mr. Rossby. He looked scorn¬ 
fully about the room. “And I never heard of 
anybody who was anybody living in one room 
—and a room like this.” 


COMMENCEMENT 


297 

‘‘Oh, John, please don’t quarrel now. 
There’s nothing that can be done,” pleaded his 
wife. 

“I always speak my mind plainly. Maybe 
I can make this young man realize the responsi¬ 
bility he’s taken on himself.” The pattern of 
crude color on the bureau caught and held his 
eye. “It looks as though an artist had fixed 
this place up,” he said scornfully. “I wouldn’t 
let him get near my barns, I can tell you that.” 
He turned about again and stared out of the 
window. 

“John is awfully upset,” explained Mrs. 
Rossby. “Oh, Georgia, if you’d only let us 
know about this—talked it over with us be¬ 
forehand—it would have been better.” 

“Do you think you might have made me 
change my mind*?” 

“No, only-” 

“Then I don’t see what good it would have 
done,” replied Georgia tranquilly. “I would 
have done it anyway.” 

“I guess that’s a fact, all right,” said Mr. 
Rossby, without turning around. “And it 
looks as though this young man had about as 
much influence with you as we have.” 

Another hour’s intermittent haggling left all 
of them, except Georgia, nervously exhausted. 
She sat placidly regarding her father and 
mother. At times her lips seemed compressed 
more tightly than usual, but, unlike Gregory’s, 



COMMENCEMENT 


298 

her hands remained folded loosely in her lap. 
He wondered what had happened to her quick 
temper. 

John Rossby drew a large gold watch from 
his vest pocket and examined the face of it. 
‘‘Well, I guess we’d better be getting back to 
the hotel,” he said, peremptorily, to his wife. 
“Can you have dinner with us to-morrow, 
Georgia?” He did not look at Gregory. 

“Can we, Gregory?” Georgia looked up at 
him as she emphasized the “we.” 

It was on his lips to refuse and tell Georgia 
to go alone, but there was that in her plea that 
pleasantly emphasized their union. “Yes, I 
think so,” he said, returning her glance of af¬ 
fection. 

Thereupon Mr. and Mrs. Rossby kissed their 
daughter and walked toward the door. 

“It’s been an awfully pleasant call,” said 
Georgia, sarcastically. 

Mr. Rossby turned about and smiled grimly 
at her. “What I should have done was to take 
you over my knee and spank you.” 

Late the next evening Gregory bade his 
father- and mother-in-law a final farewell. 
The two were to return to their farm early the 
next morning. At times, during the afternoon 
and evening, the conversation had subsided to 
common|)lace, impersonal subjects. Now and 
again there had even entered a faint note of 
friendliness into their discussions. But invari- 


COMMENCEMENT 299 

ably the most innocuous topic led unwaver¬ 
ingly, though perhaps deviously, back to some 
problem connected with the marriage. At such 
times Mr. Rossby's face would become redder, 
and his wife would droop to mournfulness. 
Georgia’s father put his questions unexpectedly, 
sharply, and always Gregory found that he 
must fumble for an answer. “Are you going to 
always keep stored” “How long are you go¬ 
ing to let Georgia go on working?” “What 
made you go into a bookstore?” To the last 
question Gregory made no answer whatever. 
An expression of his true reasons, he saw, 
would convince the old farmer that his son-in- 
law was a madman. There seemed no ground 
on which they could meet. That night, as they 
left, Mr. Rossby’s final words were: “I don’t 
wish you any hard luck, young man, but my 
opinion is, if you want to hold on to my daugh¬ 
ter, you’ll have to do something besides sit 
around a dusty bookstore all day.” 

Gregory and Georgia walked silently across 
the city toward their home. Gregory ignored 
the fact that he had not spoken, himself, and 
brooded over Georgia’s silence. Mr. Rossby’s 
parting speech stood forth in his mind. Of 
course all these things would make Georgia 
wonder—would shake her beliefs. “Always 
keep store?” No, obviously he had not in¬ 
tended that—he had never considered the mat¬ 
ter. How could he know what he would do— 


COMMENCEMENT 


300 

always? And what then? “If you want to 
hold on to my daughter . . Ah, well, they 
had known a week of happiness. He floated 
with his sentiment. He sat alone in the gloomy 
store. Georgia had gone. She had walked 
erectly out of the door, her eyes sharp and her 
lips firmly set. He drifted on alone, year after 
year. Of course that was bound to happen. 
She could not really love him; there was no 
reason that she should—^no real reason. His 
thoughts flowed to the lines of a poem: 

“A phantom among men, companionless 
As the last cloud of an expiring storm.” 

So rapt was he by his gloom that he did not 
notice that from time to time Georgia turned 
and surveyed him. 

When they were finally at home, Georgia 
was the first to speak. “Gloomy again, I see.” 

“How could I help being?” 

“Why? Do you agree with everything 
father said?” 

“No, but I imagine he made you do a lot of 
thinking.” 

“I’ve been thinking about you, not about 
what he said. I’m glad we haven’t any more 
families to come and visit us.” 

“I am, too.” He tried to speak lightly. 
“I’m sure I’d lose you if we did.” 

She made no reply. 

“Oh, well, it’ll probably happen sooner or 


COMMENCEMENT 301 

later, anyway.” He angled for her reas- 
surance. 

“Do you think so?’ she asked, casually. 

“I’m afraid so.” 

She looked as she had the time they had 
quarreled over the breaking of his engagement 
to Leonora. “Maybe you’re right.” 

“So you think so, too*?” There was fear in 
Gregory’s eyes. He felt that a word from 
him would dam this quarrel, but he could not 
bring himself to speak that word. 

“You’re rapidly convincing me. Perhaps 
that’s what you’re trying to do. If you’re 
tired of your bargain already, you might as 
well go now as any time. Or I suppose I’ll 
have to go. This is your place.” 

“You don’t love me. You can’t. You 
wouldn’t talk like this if you did.” 

“Don’t I?’ She smiled wryly and turned 
away. “Who knows*? You may be right. 
Thanks for calling my attention to the fact.” 

Gregory’s face became white. “So it’s a 
fact, is it?’ He saw his hat lying on a chair 
and reached out his hand jerkily to pick it up. 
“Good night.” He stepped to the door and 
pulled it open. He stood a moment, looking 
at Georgia. Her back was toward him. With 
obvious effort he turned, walked slowly out of 
the room, and slammed the door behind him. 

He stood at the curb in front of the house 
and stared into the quiet street. He had in- 


COMMENCEMENT 


302 

tended to walk away—to go somewhere and 
not return, but upon leaving Georgia the 
sharp point of his anger had become dulled. 
He visualized the actual prospect of never see¬ 
ing her again. Panic seized upon him. He 
could not move. He looked back at the silent, 
dark house. Perhaps now she was packing up 
to leave. If he should walk away, she might 
be gone when he returned, and he might never 
be able to find her again. In his nervousness 
he walked half a dozen paces up the street, but 
he hurried quickly back again. He started 
down the street, and, at every step, turned to 
look behind him. He saw a dark, indistin¬ 
guishable figure up the street beyond the house. 
Perhaps Georgia had slipped out. He turned 
and ran back. The figure passed under a street 
light, and Gregory saw that it was a man. He 
took up his position in front of the house again. 
Increasingly dread possibilities arose in his 
mind. Perhaps Georgia would go to the top 
drawer and, in her desperation, get out his re¬ 
volver. . . . He stepped cautiously down the 
few steps to the basement door and stood listen¬ 
ing. There was not the slightest sound. He 
wanted to go in, but he could not force himself 
to admit that he was too weak to carry out his 
threat of leaving. He turned and started up 
the steps again. 

‘'Come on in, Gregory. It’s late and we 
ought to go to bed.” 


COMMENCEMENT 


303 

He whirled about and saw Georgia standing 
in the bookstore window. She had opened it 
slightly. As he looked at her he heard her 
laugh. He tried to repress his own desire to 
laugh, but he could not. 

They were sitting on the edge of the bed. 
Georgia had amply convinced Gregory that she 
loved and adored him. ‘The next time you get 
one of these gloomy fits, you’d better go out for 
your walk right away, before we quarrel.” 

“I never realized before just what it means 
to drop out of the race,” he said. “The only 
thing that worries me about it all is that I may 
lose you.” 


The days drifted by monotonously, broken 
occasionally by an evening with Catherine and 
Joel or an excursion to the Thrumms’ apart¬ 
ment on Riverside Drive. At first Gregory had 
wondered why Aunt Annie had never come to 
see him. His mother had given the solution. 
“Why didn’t you write Aunt Annie right away 
and tell her you were married? She’ll never 
forgive you for ignoring her.” Gregory had 
found both despondency and satisfaction in this 
reproach. At least it could never be said that 
he had curried favor with Aunt Annie. Gradu¬ 
ally he forgot her and her potentialities. Life 
flowed calmly—dully at times—but Georgia’s 
companionship held seemingly endless funds of 


COMMENCEMENT 


304 

delight. Only in the late afternoons, sitting 
behind his desk in the store, did doubt assail 
him and drive his thoughts to the future. 
There were not many customers—not enough 
yet to make his original investment worth while 
—but there were a few who returned periodi¬ 
cally, chatted with him, and studied the shelves. 
It would take some time, he felt, for the store 
to become known. From time to time people 
came in to sell books. This Gregory dreaded. 
On such occasions there was usually prolonged 
haggling, and he was not familiar enough with 
the value of various books to know exactly how 
much they were worth. Whenever he bought, 
he felt convinced that he had given too much. 
There were many worries and annoyances, but 
time would eliminate them or mold them into 
routine, he hoped, as he sat at his desk and 
stared at the rows of shelves, or tried to fasten 
his attention on whatever book he was reading. 

Late one afternoon, a month after he had 
opened the shop, he looked up from his reading 
to see Mr. Frail standing in the doorway. 

“I received your card, Gregory, and I have 
been anxious to come to see you. This is the 
first opportunity I have had.” He gazed about 
at the shelves. ‘'So this is the result, is it? 
Leonora is a shrewd girl, I must say.” 

“Did she predict a bookstore?” 

“No. Oh no! But she never seemed to be- 


COMMENCEMENT 305 

lieve in your earning powers. It’s some time 
since you’ve seen her, isn’t it?” 

“Yes.” 

“It’s too bad, or at least I suppose it is. I 
have never heard the details, but I gather your 
weakness was too much for her.” 

“Weakness!” 

“Call it what you will—and she’ll do the 
same thing. Have you seen your friend Seffem 
lately?” 

Gregory looked at Mr. Frail with surprise. 
“Why, no! Not lately.” 

“Since you broke with Leonora?” 

Gregory thought. “Yes. I saw him a week 
or so after that.” 

Mr. Frail smiled and sat in the chair beside 
Gregory’s desk. “Ah, he is an honorable young 
man then, after all. I wondered. You see he’s 
been calling on Leonora recently.” 

“Jimmy Seffem!” Gregory sat down sud¬ 
denly. 

“Yes. Don’t be upset. She was very cir¬ 
cumspect about it. He wrote her three letters 
before she would consent to see him—circum¬ 
spect and clever at the same time, you see. Mr. 
Seffem is adorning our living room, and he does 
it very well. That song he wrote is going to 
have a tremendous success. “Clinging Baby 
Fingers” is the title, I believe.” 

Gregory stared at a pile of encyclopaedias. 

“It has a very catchy tui^e and can, I under- 


COMMENCEMENT 


306 

Stand, be rendered either sentimentally or 
jazzily, depending on the mood. It will un¬ 
doubtedly have a great success. Mr. Seffem 
explained to me that the words ‘baby’ and 
‘daddy’ used in the piece are open to two dis¬ 
tinct interpretations, according to the manner 
in which it is sung. He did it both ways. Per¬ 
sonally, I prefer the jazz.” 

Gregory still stared at the encyclopsedias. “I 
never heard it.” 

“I suppose I’ve been rather cruel,” observed 
Mr. Frail. “But cruelty, under the present cir¬ 
cumstances, may prove eventually to be kind¬ 
ness. Leonora is not heartless, really, but she is 
not sentimental. Sentiment, it seems to me, is 
a masculine trait, not a feminine one. It is men 
who have thrown an aura of sentiment about 
women, and, as long as it doesn’t interfere 
with their plans, women very sensibly allow it 
to remain. When they get into tight places it’s 
a decided protection for them. However, 
Leonora wants a husband, and just because you 
can’t fill the bill is no reason to expect her to 
go without one. But now that you know 
Leonora no longer desires you, I suppose your 
desire for her is thereby increased. The danger 
now is that this desire will be rashly transferred 
to some one else, who, under normal conditions, 
would be ignored. You must take care.” 

Gregory smiled faintly and looked at Mr. 
Prail. “I’m married.” 


COMMENCEMENT 307 

‘'Married!” Mr. Prail sighed lugubriously. 
“So it’s already happened. I come too late. 
You’re really married'?” 

“Yes.” 

“Tell me, is it a woman older than your¬ 
self?” 

“No. A month younger.” Gregory frowned 
with annoyance. “It wasn’t a case of rebound¬ 
ing. That’s the reason I broke with Leonora. 
I found I loved some one else more.” 

“Well, it may be all right. But you can’t 
support a wife on this, can you'?” He waved 
his arm at the shelves. 

“I don’t know yet.” 

“Well, you seem to have developed a little 
courage—or insanity—since I saw you last. 
Retired from the bustling world and taken a 
wife with you. Where do you live*?” 

Gregory described their arrangements. 

“The books got you,” Mr. Prail said, shaking 
his head. “My warnings came too late. And 
why a bookstore'? Oh, I know. I know. A 
delicatessen store wouldn’t sound as well. 
Books. Why is it that buying and selling books 
seems less commercial than buying and selling 
clothespins or cheese'? The fact remains that it 
is—^probably because it’s easier to fail at books 
—and only the people who want to read do 
business with you. The hoi poloi eat cheese 
and hang out washing. Still, I should think it 
would take a good business head to make any- 


3o8 commencement 

thing like this pay. Do you like it? Are you 
satisfied?’’ 

^^Yes, I like it.” 

“Of course, you have to. If you became dis¬ 
satisfied with this, I suppose you’d take to writ¬ 
ing.” 

Gregory laughed and perched himself on the 
corner of the desk. 

Mr. Frail looked along the bookshelves. 
“Whenever I’m in a bookstore, I wonder that I 
ever had the courage, or foolishness, to write a 
line. Look at the thousands of buried hopes 
and futile efforts. How many of these are 
really great books? How many of them ex¬ 
press anything of truth ? Thousands and thou¬ 
sands of pages of distorted, warped facts, some 
bent one way and some another. And the 
novels, what do they teach us? That a solid 
income and love and Christian marriage are 
the only worthy aims of all mankind. They 
bolster our unconsidered prejudices and par¬ 
alyze our mental processes with love philters. 
They trick us into false hopes, false beliefs, 
false lives. Those books”— he waved his hand 
at the shop in general—those books stand 
guard against progress, against truth. Words 
arranged in neat patterns that attract the eye. 
If you can write cleverly, you can make people 
believe anything. If you wish to prove your¬ 
self right in an argument, what do you usually 
say? You say that you have read such and such 


COMMENCEMENT 


309 

a thing. As if everything written must be the 
truth. By books you may prove that God 
exists. By books you may prove that God 
doesn't exist. What is the truth? No one 
knows, and no one ever can know whether he 
does or not. Yet think of the words, the 
paper, and the lives spent in warping facts to 
prove one thing or the other. Men with pens 
proved to the nations of the world that the 
war must be fought and that this would be the 
end of wars. Now men with pens are proving 
that the war was a mistake and that there will 
be other wars. The men with pens sent mil¬ 
lions to death, and the pens still scratch away. 
And so on forever, I suppose." 

‘'But don't you think the lies are gradually 
discarded as time goes on?" 

“Yes. Oh, there’s no other way. But the 
process is so slow. I'm tired, that's all. Even 
what I've just said could be proven to be false 
by a mind opposed to mine. And we'd prob¬ 
ably be both equally right and equally wrong. 
That's the tragedy of it." 

Gregory saw that Mr. Trail's eyes were sad 
and listless, and that his shoulders sagged 
heavily. 

“I'm old and I have no certainty, no drug¬ 
ging faith. I have done nothing—not even 
built comfort for my life." 

“You still write, don't you?" 

“Yes. I could not stop, even if I wished to. 


COMMENCEMENT 


310 

But my faith is waning. I have written six 
novels, three of which I have destroyed. At 
my son’s instigation I sent one to a publisher a 
few weeks ago.” He smiled faintly. “You 
can understand why John should wish now to 
have his father a literary light. The manu¬ 
script was promptly returned to me. I shall 
not make the attempt again. I must keep the 
few shreds of faith remaining to me. When I 
die, some one else may worry about my fame. 
John is a good salesman, and I shall leave my 
work to him.” 

“I have given up all intention of trying to 
write,” said Gregory, after a silence. “I once 
wrote a short story and afterwards reread it. I 
tore it up.” 

“You have difficulty with life, don’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

“It is difficult. I, for example, am either a 
person who is devoting himself to a great work, 
or a damned old fool. However, the terms are 
more or less synonymous. In business one re¬ 
ceives sympathy for failure, if his effort is pro¬ 
longed and sincere. In such work as mine 
those who fail are scorned—‘bugs,’ "nuts,’ 
"poor tools,’ they are called.” 

""I suppose that now I’m called one of those 
names.” 

""Yes, you probably are. Are you happy?” 

""Yes.” 

‘"Then don’t think about it. Don’t worry 


COMMENCEMENT 311 

about its lasting. Take things for granted. 
How silly! Of course you can’t. Are you sat¬ 
isfied with the bookstore*?” 

Gregory evaded the question. “I think so. I 
can’t tell yet. It’s hard to drop out of things. 
Sometimes I think I ought to get a regular job 
—^some sort of work with more future.” 

‘The heritage is strong. We cannot refrain 
from work without considering ourselves moral 
lepers. We have worked so hard in building 
the country that we can’t stop now. Just think 
of all that has been accomplished. It is in¬ 
credible that we should have developed even 
the faint smattering of culture which we now 
possess. Those who carp and howl should be 
destroyed—they and their fellows who think 
we have reached the summit, the boosters. 
They both distract us from our purpose.” 

Mr. Prail stood up and walked to the win¬ 
dow. He stared silently out into the shadowy 
street. 

“You know^” he said, turning around. “I 
often think of leaving Leonora and her mother. 
I should, if I could afford to—if they could live 
without my wavering support. I am a coward 
as far as life is concerned. I should like to 
travel, to wander aimlessly about. In all my 
life I have never been more than three hundred 
miles from home. But there, I am letting my¬ 
self go too much. The great thing I have to 
fight against is self-pity. I have no reason to 


COMMENCEMENT 


312 

feel sorry for myself—^unless it is that I am 
unfit for life, but even that is, I suppose, my 
fault.” 

Gregory stroked his cheek. “I wonder 
whether anyone is as sure of himself as he 
seems. Perhaps some people are, though. My 
father must be. Yes, Pm sure he is.” 

“IPs a part of self-respect not to admit it if 
you aren’t. If you adopt the pose you will find 
yourself supported in it by your friends, and 
they, in turn, in their moments of doubt, will 
be cheered by your apparent faith and cer¬ 
tainty. It is an endless circle, an endless race 
to escape from truth. Only the weak, the unfit, 
drop out of the race.” 

“It takes a lot of strength to drop out.” 

“Yes, I suppose it does, in a way, but those 
who drop out seek a new pose—superior intelli¬ 
gence, accentuated sesthetic sense. Oh, we have 
to pose. I do it myself and I hate myself for it. 
I have to. Otherwise, I am a nonentity, a- 

The door opened, and Georgia entered. 
Gregory jumped down off the desk to present 
her to Mr. Prail. 

“I have just been telling Gregory what a 
miserable, unpleasant place this world is.” Mr. 
Prail smiled down at her. 

“Does he agree with you?” 

“Yes, but he has hope. I was surprised to 
find him married. I had saved him from one 



COMMENCEMENT 


313 

marriage and here I find he has jumped into 
another.” 

‘‘You saved him?” 

“He was engaged to my daughter, and I used 
to have long talks with him about it. He 
wasn’t good enough for Leonora.” 

She smiled, for she had known what to ex¬ 
pect. Gregory had often told her of Mr. Frail, 
and she was prepared to like him, despite the 
fact that he was Leonora’s father. “Well, he 
had to marry some one, so I thought I might as 
well do it as to leave the job for some one else.” 

“That’s exactly the kind of wife you need, 
Gregory. She’s interested in your welfare. 
She doesn’t expect any grand, pyrotechnical 
passion. You represent her duty. That’s a 
solid basis for a life-long affection. Anyone is 
bound to think highly of anything he’s picked 
up and worked over. Why, her marrying you 
must have been something like having a baby 
—a nasty job, but conducive to loyalty and 
affection. She’s never going to admit she made 
a bad job of it, any more than a mother would.” 

Gregory laughed. “Babies are sometimes 
left on front porches and in garbage cans.” 

“Oh yes. It’s not certain, of course. Well, 
I must be going along.” 

“Why don’t you stay and have supper with 
us?” asked Georgia. 

“I’d like to, but I can’t to-night. As a mat¬ 
ter of fact, my daughter’s new suitor is taking 


COMMENCEMENT 


314 

the whole family to the theater. That, 
Gregory, is an attention which you overlooked. 
Little things like that are greatly appreciated 
by parents. It helps a lot.’’ 

“If we write and ask you to come over to 
dinner some night will you come^?” asked 
Gregory. 

“I will. And I shall be glad at any time to 
give you advice in any marital or other diffi¬ 
culties which may arise. Good night.” 



CHAPTER ELEVEN 


Gregory jumped up from his chair and walked 
back and forth across the bookstore. A half- 
dozen people had been in the store during the 
morning, but not one of them had bought a 
single book. He stopped before a tier of 
shelves, glanced at the titles, and pulled out a 
volume. As he opened it a tiny cloud of dust 
arose from the top of the leaves. He rubbed 
his finger tip across the back of the book and 
gazed at the black smudge he had wiped off. 
He returned the book to its place and resumed 
his walk back and forth across the room. 

Why was it that when he had first bought 
the shop he had taken so much pleasure in ar¬ 
ranging these books ^ Now, the thought of 
dusting them, of working over them, dismayed 
him. The card catalogue he had made had not 
been touched since he had written out the last 
card. He was tired of reading, too. Lately he 
had merely sat at his desk and stared out of the 
window. The feet of the passers-by were on a 
level with his eyes, and day after day he 
watched these feet, all of them going some¬ 
where, all of them seeming to have some defi¬ 
nite direction. He alone sat and waited while 
the feet tramped back and forth. The world 
315 





COMMENCEMENT 


316 

was in motion, definite, purposeful motion. He 
alone remained fixed before his desk, watching 
the feet. He longed to go out and walk—walk 
briskly, forcefully, but he could not leave the 
walls of books. The books tired him, oppressed 
him. He became increasingly conscious of the 
effort that had gone into the making of them. 
He visualized them less as thoughts and more 
as millions upon millions of words strung along 
endless pages. He tried to read them, but he 
could hear the feet passing outside the window. 
His imagination became increasingly active. 
He was calling for help. He was shut up in a 
tight place, but he could hear and see endless 
crowds of people hurrying by. They were 
unaware of his existence. His cries were swal¬ 
lowed up in the heedless tramping of feet. Or 
again, Georgia had left him. She had gone 
away, laughing pityingly at him. He was 
alone, facing cavernous days of sitting before 
a dusty desk. At such times he would leave 
his chair suddenly and pace across the room. 

One day he had filled one of the long tables 
with a miscellaneous assortment of books and 
painstakingly painted a large sign to put in 
the window: Special Sale of Old Books— 
Your Pick at Twenty-Five Cents Apiece. 
At the end of the day the sale had brought in 
two dollars. So rare was it for a pair of feet to 
pause in front of the bookstore and turn in, that 
Gregory never saw the phenomenon without a 


COMMENCEMENT 317 

start. He thought of advertising in the paper, 
but the idea seemed hopeless. What could he 
advertise? Second-hand books alone were not 
a commodity that would attract enough buyers 
to pay the expense. He might add a stock of 
new books, but such a departure would draw 
too heavily upon the small amount of money he 
had in the bank. The desk held him. There 
was no way out, unless— He visualized no 
alternative clearly. The giving up of the shop 
had become associated in his mind with weak¬ 
ness; and with this word he dammed the 
streams of thought that would have led him to 
action. The feet beyond the window tramped 
endlessly back and forth. Gregory gazed out 
of the window and drummed on the desk with 
his finger tips. “Damn old Frail!” he ex¬ 
claimed petulantly. 

Frequently he and Georgia talked of the 
bookstore and of its prospects, but at such times 
there was always constraint. Gregory would 
not admit his restlessness, his doubts. Georgia 
seemed unwilling to advise him; her opinions 
held the word “perhaps.” There were quarrels, 
but even then there was caution in any mention 
of the store. It was a subject which he did 
not dare to face quite squarely, and Georgia 
seemed to be awaiting his decisions, his actions. 

But one evening in the late fall when Georgia 
returned from business, she found Gregory at 
work on a sheet of figures. “Figuring up our 


3i8 commencement 

income tax*?’’ she asked, lightly, as she kissed 
him. 

He tore the sheet in two and threw it in the 
waste basket. ‘1 drew fifty dollars out of the 
bank to-day to make up the rent.” 

“Do you suppose the store will pay it back 
next month *?” 

He laughed harshly. “Maybe—if it burns 
down and I collect insurance.” 

“Well, you can’t blame it on me. It 
wouldn’t have been any worse if we hadn’t got 
married.” 

He rose impulsively from his chair and took 
her in his arms. “Worse!” he exclaimed. “I 
don’t know what would have happened to me if 
I hadn’t had you. I adore you.” 

They walked back to the living room. 
Gregory set the table, while Georgia went into 
the kitchen and began preparing dinner. When 
he had finished his task he stood in the doorway 
and watched her silently for a few minutes. 

“Maybe I’d better get a regular job,” he 
said, finally. This was the first time he had 
made such a suggestion, and he spoke it tenta¬ 
tively, without conviction. 

“Give mT 

“That’s what I can’t decide—whether it 
would be giving in or facing the truth.” 

“Well, maybe you’d better. I don’t want to 
advise you, though.” She continued her work 
without looking up at him. 


COMMENCEMENT 319 

Gregory made no reply. Her calm state¬ 
ment, ‘Well, maybe you’d better,” made him 
realize more clearly than his own words—^his 
thoughts, even—^just what giving in implied. 
Although he himself had made the original sug¬ 
gestion, he resented the fact that, with so few 
words, she could agree to so tremendous a 
change. It would mean nothing to her, then. 
The reducing of himself and his thoughts to 
slavery would be like moving into a new house 
or buying a new rug, an important matter, but 
not in any way momentous. He left the 
kitchen door and cast himself disconsolately on 
the bed. The possibility of leaving the book¬ 
store, of giving up this room, which he had 
come to like, and moving into a nondescript 
apartment, created panic in his thoughts. He 
had believed that Georgia understood and sym¬ 
pathized with his desire for colorful life, his 
resolve not to sink under the necessity of pro¬ 
viding food and clothing. And she could dis¬ 
miss all that with the few words, “Well, maybe 
you’d better.” 

He jumped up from the bed and returned to 
the kitchen door. “You really think that I’d 
better throw the store over*?” He tried to speak 
casually. 

Georgia looked up at him. “I said I 
wouldn’t advise you.” 

“But you said first that maybe I’d better.” 

“Did I?” She turned back to the gas stove. 


320 COMMENCEMENT 

“Well, if you can’t make the store pay, you’ll 
have to.” 

“It would mean nothing to you—leaving all 
this?” 

“Oh yes! It would mean that the bookstore 
wasn’t a success.” There was exasperation in 
her tone. 

Gregory’s lips tightened and he turned away 
from the door again. 

During dinner neither of them spoke more 
than a few necessary words. Gregory ate lit¬ 
tle and sat staring at the splash of color on the 
bureau opposite. Color, Joel had said, would 
give him courage. Courage for what? He 
could be courageous if only there were some 
fight, some struggle, some definite end. Which 
would require the greater courage—to hold to 
the store, or to go back and make his way in 
some paying business? It was possible that 
Georgia was beginning to resent the idea that 
she must continue to work in order to make her 
living. The beginning had been romantic 
enough, but perhaps she was opening her eyes 
to the possibility of disaster. Leonora had been 
very sane and sensible, after all. 

He watched Georgia as she walked into the 
kitchen with her hands full of dishes. “Dirty, 
greasy dishes.” Mrs. Frail certainly had not 
revolted at the thought when she was first mar¬ 
ried. Could he and Georgia be drifting toward 
that? It was impossible. He stood up and 


COMMENCEMENT 321 

walked irritably about the room. He, too, 
picked up some dishes and carried them into the 
kitchen. 

“You don’t need to help if you don’t want 
to.” 

He made no reply, but continued clearing off 
the table. After the work was finished Georgia 
picked up a book, arranged herself comfortably 
in a chair, and began to read. All day long 
Gregory had been trying to focus his attention 
on any one of a dozen different books, and now 
the thought of making another effort sickened 
him. He sat chewing a match stick and watch¬ 
ing Georgia. Despite this love which he had 
at times felt to be so powerful, so all-embrac¬ 
ing, their personalities were sharply distinct. 
Only now and again, in moments of ecstasy, 
did their selves seem really to approach each 
other. She held no conception of his struggle, 
of the tragedy which loomed menacingly above 
him. 

She seemed to feel his persistent gaze, for 
she looked up. “Why don’t you read or do 
something?” Her tone was matter-of-fact; the 
question apparently held little interest for her. 

“Oh, I’m thinking!” Gregory longed to re¬ 
open the discussion, but her apathy challenged 
his own self-sufficiency. “I think I’ll go out 
for a walk. I haven’t been out all day. Would 
you like to go?” 


322 


COMMENCEMENT 


“No, I feel rather tired. I think I'll stay in 
and read." She turned back to her book. 

Gregory felt no desire to walk. The idea 
had come almost simultaneously with his state¬ 
ment of it. Nevertheless, he put on his hat and 
left the house. He sauntered aimlessly at first, 
but the air was keen and bracing, and, after a 
few blocks, he was walking briskly. He 
straightened his back and forced his pace to the 
utmost. The desire to return to Georgia was 
strong, but he fought against it, and at the 
crossing of each successive street he felt a per¬ 
verse satisfaction. At the end of a mile he 
would turn back, but he had gone more than 
three miles before he finally stopped. He 
turned and walked crosstown through Central 
Park. At Fifth Avenue he paused thoughtfully 
and considered continuing farther. In the end, 
he walked homeward. He had hoped that, 
when he finally returned, his thoughts would 
be cleared, that they might have produced some 
decision, but as he neared home he found that 
his original worries had given place to new, 
fresher ones. How would Georgia receive 
him^? Now that he had been away from her, 
it would be a kiss that would resolve the whole 
tangle; nothing more would be said of the mat¬ 
ter until the next misunderstanding. That was 
the manner in which their quarrels invariably 
ended. Nothing was ever really threshed out. 
He walked more slowly. The kiss had always 


COMMENCEMENT 323 

been entirely satisfactory heretofore—to him, 
at least. He recollected his frankness the night 
he had definitely asked Georgia to marry him. 
Never since had he achieved that candor. He 
had fallen into the habit of covering his inde¬ 
cision with demonstrations of affection. He 
was drifting again. And Georgia was not of 
the sort who would overlook or fail to perceive 
the weakness. Always she seemed to be await¬ 
ing decisions from him which never came. 
During their quarrels he had noticed a ques¬ 
tioning expression in her eyes which he had not 
before fathomed. He bit savagely at his lip 
and hurried on. 

When he reached home Georgia was sitting 
before the bureau, combing her hair. He stood 
in the center of the room and watched her. 
Each stroke of the comb made the reddish 
brown mass of fluff stand out farther from her 
head. Her hand, holding the comb, moved 
gracefully back and forth. After all, a kiss 
would settle anything. He moved toward her, 
but, as he approached her chair, he swerved and 
sat down on the edge of the bed. 

“Did you have a pleasant walk?” 

He returned her gaze. “I did a lot of think¬ 
ing. You may wonder—^you probably don’t, 
though—why I didn’t kiss you when I came in. 

I wanted to.” He looked away. “But that’s 
how we always end every difficulty, and noth¬ 
ing’s ever really settled.” Although he was not 


COMMENCEMENT 


324 

looking at her, he knew that she had put aside 
her comb and was listening attentively to what 
he was saying. “I was upset to-night because 
you seemed to take my getting a regular job so 
casually. Fve been discontented, though, for 
some time, although I never told you about it. 
The bookstore hasn’t been a success, and I sup¬ 
pose I’ve sort of lost my nerve. But I’ve de¬ 
cided to go on with it awhile longer—^until I’m 
sure I can’t make it go, or until I decide on 
something else. I-” Gregory turned sud¬ 

denly, in time to see Georgia sit on the floor at 
his feet. 

“Why can’t you always be like this^” she 
asked, looking up into his puzzled eyes. 


Gregory sat at the head of the table. At his 
right was Joel Morn; at his left, Catherine and 
Mr. Frail. Georgia came in from the kitchen. 
She was bearing a platter piled high with lamb 
chops. She placed them before Gregory and 
took the seat opposite him. 

“If you’d married Leonora, Gregory, you’d 
have had a servant to do all these things. You 
wouldn’t have made your wife work.” 

Gregory glanced at Georgia and saw that sh^ 
was smiling good-humoredly. “Georgia likes 
it,” he said, feeling rather complacent. 

“That’s a terrible thing to say about any 
woman, Greg,” said Catherine. “How would 



COMMENCEMENT 


325 

you like to have some one say that you liked to 
press your trousers, or that the delight of your 
life was to beat rugs^?” 

“You never can tell,” observed Mr. Frail. 
“Who’d have thought that anyone as opposed 
to commercialism as Gregory would have gone 
into a business where he does nothing but buy 
and sell^? How is the literature game these 
days, Gregory 

“Rotten.” 

“Any business would be, run the way yours 
is. What you ought to do is to get some capi¬ 
tal, open up a big store on Fifth Avenue some¬ 
where, and advertise the way chewing gum is 
advertised. Imagine what a big electric sign 
would do! Some slogan like this: Don’t be a 
dumb-bell! See us and have your brain fitted 
for a library. Culture on credit. Think of 
the possibilities! Why should bookstores be 
tucked away in little out-of-the-way corners? 
Can you imagine a business man opening up a 
shop where no one could find it?” 

“With ideas like yours,” observed Joel 
Morn, “I can’t see why you aren’t a captain of 
industry.” 

“I’ve often wondered about it myself,” re¬ 
plied Mr. Frail. “It is strange. However, 
they’re merely ideas without driving force be¬ 
hind them.” 

“Have you got any suggestions about selling 
pictures?” 


COMMENCEMENT 


326 

“Pictures^ Let me see. Why, yes! Think 
of some new way of being eccentric. I have it. 
Rent one of those big sign boards in some prom¬ 
inent place and paint a picture on it. You’d 
have your name in every newspaper in New 
York inside of a few hours. People would be¬ 
gin to talk about you. They’d reproduce the 
picture and your photograph in all the illus¬ 
trated supplements. You could stretch canvas 
over the signboard and paint on that. Get up 
on a scaffolding at noon hour and wear velvet 
trousers, a smock, and a tam-o’-shanter. Then 
if you wanted to get even more advertising, late 
some night you could climb up and take the 
canvas away and the next morning give out the 
story that it had been stolen. If you follow 
these directions I’ll guarantee that within a 
week every man, woman, and child in the coun¬ 
try will know your name and what you look 
like. And your pictures would begin to sell.” 
Mr. Prail took a sip of water. ‘‘You know, the 
more I think of that idea the more it appeals 
to me. Why shouldn’t you do it^? The expense 
wouldn’t be very great. People used to paint 
pictures for churches. Up till a few hundred 
years ago the churches were art galleries. That 
has changed. To-day bill boards are art gal¬ 
leries—the galleriers of living art. You could 
work up that theory and give it out to the 
papers when the reporters began to flock 
around.” 


COMMENCEMENT 327 

Joel smiled skeptically. ‘Tm afraid that 
wouldn’t sell my pictures.” 

“Oh, you might have to use a little discre¬ 
tion in the way you paint—at first. After you 
were once established, you could do anything. 
It might not be a bad idea to be a little modern, 
though, just to sort of epater les bourgeois, 

Joel grunted. “Anybody ever ask about that 
picture of mine, Gregory?” 

“No.” 

“Do you really expect, without the aid of 
any showmanship, to make money from your 
painting?” asked Mr. Frail. 

“I do. They’re good pictures, and some day 
somebody’s going to discover that fact.” Joel 
spoke tersely. 

“It must be discouraging work, though.” 

“It isn’t.” 

Driving against the wall of Joel’s curtness, 
the conversation finally broke and subsided. 
At the opposite end of the table Catherine and 
Georgia began talking together about cooking 
experiences. Gregory glanced nervously from 
Joel to Mr. Frail. He had expected them to 
like each other. He had looked forward to this 
dinner with considerable pleasure. It would be 
amusing, he had believed, to hear the two dis¬ 
cuss questions; each would draw the other out. 
Instead, Mr. Frail seemed preoccupied, and 
Joel looked at the older man with marked dis¬ 
approval. 


COMMENCEMENT 


328 

. cooked some spaghetti the other night. 
We’re going to use it to tie up packages with. 
You can’t bit it in two.” 

Mr. Frail laughed and turned to Catherine, 
who had spoken. “Are you able to take things 
like that as jokes wlien they happen 

“Oh, no! I curse and swear at the time.” 

“Gregory’s frightened to death every time I 
make a mistake,” said Georgia. “He seems to 
think I’m going to leave—give a week’s notice.” 

“Yes, I expect he would be that way.” Mr. 
Frail observed, smiling reminiscently at 
Gregory. “I don’t imagine he’s a hard husband 
to work for, if you know how to handle him, 
and somehow or other you seem to be well 
qualified for that task.” 

“Is that supposed to be a compliment*?” 

“If you like Gregory, I suppose it is.” 

“I do. Did you think I would be ashamed to 
admit it?’ 

“I—no. You are very downright, aren’t 
you? I guess Gregory needed you.” 

Again the conversation lapsed, and, in des¬ 
peration, Gregory turned to Joel. “Have you 
finished that picture of Catherine?” he in¬ 
quired. As he spoke he foresaw that the sub¬ 
ject of art was likely to prove disastrous again. 

“No,” said Joel, flatly. 

“Every day he says it’s finished,” added 
Catherine. “And every morning he makes me 


COMMENCEMENT 329 

sit again. Some day Fm going to hide the can¬ 
vas.” 

“Have you ever sold any pictures?” asked 
Mr. Frail. 

“No.” 

“And yet you say painting isn’t discourag¬ 
ing work.” 

“I happen to like it.” 

“Yes, but one has to live. And you are mar¬ 
ried.” 

Joel shrugged his shoulders. 

Mr. Frail turned to Catherine. “Do you 
find painting interesting work?” 

“Fascinating,” she replied loyally. “Liv¬ 
ing with Joel is like trying to cross the ocean 
in a motor-boat. We may go under at any min¬ 
ute. I have to like it, anyway. If I didn’t 
he’d throw me out. I come second.” There 
was no trace of self-pity in her words. 

“Yes, I suppose there’s plenty of excitement. 
After all, there isn’t much difference between 
that sort of life and that of a man starting a 
new business. Both paths are risky and they 
both require illimitable self-certainty. I 
couldn’t do it.” 

“If a person hasn’t got self-certainty,” as¬ 
severated Joel, “I don’t see what good he is, 
anyway. What would a painter do without it? 
Copy some one else’s work I suppose. Fick out 
the best and try to follow it, and thereby prove 
himself a nincompoop.” Joel spoke with 


COMMENCEMENT 


330 

asperity. 'If you paint, you’ve got to know 
you’re right every minute, every stroke—^until 
it’s made, anyway.” 

“That’s exactly what any business man 
would say about his work.” 

“Well, damn it, why shouldn’t he*?” 

“But you can’t be very sympathetic with the 
type. He’s the kind that would ignore yout 
pictures. He would laugh at everything con¬ 
cerned with the word art.” 

“What do you expect*? He’s never seen any¬ 
thing but third-rate stuff. He’ll learn. You 
speak as if business men were the only ones 
who couldn’t appreciate art. Who can, any¬ 
way*? Certainly the poor ditch-digger doesn’t 
know anything about it and never will, either. 
No wonder the business man turns away in 
disgust. Art has sunk to the admiration of 
a few sniveling old ladies who don’t know any¬ 
thing more about pictures than they do about 
washing dishes. But the man with the money 
is the only one I want to interest. My pur¬ 
chasing power is reckoned in dollars and cents, 
and must be as the world is constituted to-day. 
I’ve got to have some of it to live. I’m a 
painter and I’m going to paint. Therefore I’ve 
got to sell my pictures. And that’s that!” 
Joel’s lean upper lip pressed tightly down upon 
the lower. 

Again the conversation ceased, and again 
Catherine and Georgia talked together. At 


COMMENCEMENT 331 

length Mr. Frail turned to Gregory. “How 
much longer are you going to keep store?” 

“That depends on whether I can make it 
pay or not. If I find I can’t, I’ll sell out and 
find something else to do.” Gregory spoke 
calmly, with an assurance that he did not quite 
feel. In the previous discussion his sympathy 
had been drawn to Joel. He had conceived a 
desire to emulate Joel’s unswerving forceful¬ 
ness; its freshness was inspiring. 

“You, too, Gregory?” Mr. Frail smiled. “I 
never expected to meet with such profound cer¬ 
tainty here.” 

Gregory reddened. Although he did not 
look at her, he knew that Georgia was watch¬ 
ing him as he spoke. “I wish I’d bought a 
grocery store, instead.” 

“Remember, Gregory, you’re a college gradu¬ 
ate. Even a bookstore is bad enough, but 
groceries! You’ve got to do something genteel, 
if not literary.” 

“I don’t give a damn about anything liter¬ 
ary! All I want to do is to make a comfort¬ 
able living and enjoy myself.” 

“Not a bad idea. Why don’t you carry it 
out?” 

Gregory laughed dryly. “Maybe I will 
some day.” 

“This is a disappointment, Gregory. I had 
expected you to carry on my tradition of inef¬ 
ficient worthlessness. I had rather intended 


332 COMMENCEMENT 

you to go on with the work after I stepped out, 
and now I find you turning on your old master. 
Perhaps Leonora’s original judgment was bet¬ 
ter than mine.” 

“Did you tell her about Gregory’s getting 
married?” asked Georgia. 

“Yes. She said she was afraid he’d never 
amount to anything. It’s a case of good rid¬ 
dance with her.” 

“A triumph for me, isn’t it?” Georgia smiled 
unconcernedly. 

“What is there about you, Greg, that makes 
the girls fight over you?” asked Catherine. 

Mr. Frail spoke before Gregory could think 
of a reply. “They see that he needs mother¬ 
ing.” 

When Georgia arose to clear the dishes off 
the table Gregory jumped to help her. He 
carried the meat platter into the kitchen and 
sighed deeply as he placed it beside the sink. 
He stood for a few moments in the center of 
the tiny room. He felt unwilling to hurry 
back to the others. Somehow, this moment 
seemed a respite from an exhausting struggle. 
Georgia came in with both hands full of dishes 
and looked at him inquiringly. He waited 
until she had put the dishes down, then he 
drew her into his arms. 

“We must go back, Gregory,” she whispered. 

“Do you love me?” 

“You know I do.” She looked intently at 


COMMENCEMENT 


333 

him for a moment. “But are you sure you love 
me?’ 

For an answer he clasped her more tightly. 

“It may not last long.” She broke away and 
hurried back into the other room. 

Gregory started after her, but hesitated 
thoughtfully. In Georgia’s attitude there was 
something unknown which troubled him. He 
remembered now that she had seemed preoc¬ 
cupied and worried all evening. He had 
thought it was the responsibility of the dinner. 
Perhaps Mr. Prail was to blame. In a way, 
he was a nuisance. He had seemed amusing 
heretofore—yes, even profound. But, with all 
that, he was a curious mixture of self-pity and 
self-satisfaction. Beside Joel’s vigor there 
came to light an aggravating feebleness in Mr. 
Prail’s character. Gregory strode firmly back 
into the living room. 

“That was a very good dinner,” said Mr. 
Prail, somewhat later, lighting his pipe. “But 
I fear that the friction between Mr. Morn’s 
character and my own was unpleasant to every¬ 
one.” 

Joel gazed at Mr. Prail and compressed his 
lips slightly. “I should like to paint your pic¬ 
ture, Mr. Prail.” 

“I imagine that when it was finished it would 
look something like the one of the Victorian 
lady in the store.” 

“Something, perhaps. I’d make a similiar 


COMMENCEMENT 


334 

color contrast. As a matter of fact, Fd like to 
paint you and Catherine in the same picture.’’ 
‘‘And call it ‘Merlin and Vivien*?’ ” 

Joel smiled grimly. “Fd call it ‘Nymph and 
Human Being.’ ” 

“I should think you’d like to paint Gregory’s 
long face and wistful eyes.” 

“Not very interesting—yet.” 

Gregory looked embarrassed as he saw Joel 
calmly surveying him. 

“I can’t get any very definite impression of 
Gregory. I try to remember him sometimes, 
but his face eludes me,” continued Joel. 

Mr. Frail looked at Gregory and smiled. 
“Sort of nondescript.” He turned to Georgia. 
“Don’t you agree with me?” 

“Oh, I find it very easy to distinguish,” she 
replied, noncommittally. 

The conversation dragged again. After 
making a few not very successful attempts to 
enliven it, Mr. Frail stood up. “I think it’s 
time for me to go,” he said. 

“Oh, it’s early yet!” protested Gregory. 
“It’s only nine o’clock.” 

“Yes, but I think it’s time for me to go.” He 
bade Catherine and Joel good night, thanked 
Georgia for the dinner, and walked down the 
hall with Gregory. “Full of ghosts, isn’t it?” 
He nodded toward the dark bookstore. 

“I never noticed the ghosts. The dead in 


COMMENCEMENT 


335 

there seem to have no desire to haunt anyone. 
They sleep peacefully.” 

“Well, good night, Gregory. I hope we’ll 
meet again sometime, and that then you’ll be 
full of scorn. You’re too happily married to 
sink into oblivion. But then, I once thought 
I was happily married. Ah, well, one never 
knows. Good night.” 

When Gregory returned he found Joel stand¬ 
ing belligerently in the center of the room and 
staring down at Catherine. “I don’t care a 
damn what he thinks! He made me mad.” 

“But you didn’t have to show it so plainly. 
I rather liked him. He has nice eyes and no 
morals.” 

“No brains. Before dinner I took him out 
front to show him the picture. He looked at it 
and said: ‘Very modern, isn’t it?’ That was 
exactly the same comment Aunt Annie made 
on my pictures.” 

“Oh, so it’s that! I didn’t know about the 
picture. No wonder you got mad.” 

“It wasn’t just that. It was everything he 
said and the way in which he said it.” 

Catherine smiled knowingly. “When you’re 
as old as he is you’ll be saying the same sort of 
thing, and anything modern ’ll drive you mad.” 

Joel’s eyes narrowed. “Your prophecy may 
be right, but it hasn’t anything to do with the 
argument.” He turned and paced the length 
of the room. 


COMMENCEMENT 


336 

“Oh, don’t let your angry passions rise, dear! 
We’re not at home,” said Catherine lazily. 

“You probably agree with him about the 
picture, too.” Joel turned and glowered at her. 

“Of course it’s modern. As you replied to 
Aunt Annie, it was painted only a short time 
ago. Do you want me to say it’s old- 
fashioned 

“You know what I mean.” 

Catherine shrugged her shoulders. “Any¬ 
thing you paint, darling, is beautiful to me.” 

Twice Joel started to speak; then with a 
jerky movement he turned and sat down on a 
chair in the far corner of the room. “I 
don’t give a damn what you think! As soon as 
I get home I’m going to rip that picture of 
you in shreds.” He sat with his elbows resting 
on his knees and stared at the floor. 

After a moment’s silence Catherine turned 
and began a matter-of-fact conversation with 
Georgia. They seemed able to ignore the un¬ 
pleasantness, but Gregory sat awkwardly in his 
chair, glancing furtively at Joel and wonder- 
ingly at Catherine. At length, without any 
prelude, Catherine got up, crossed the room, 
and put her arm around Joel’s neck. He 
pushed her away once, but she persisted, and he 
finally allowed himself to be kissed. 

“Your pictures aren’t modern, dear.” She 
smiled lazily at him. 

Later, while Catherine was putting on her 


COMMENCEMENT 337 

hat preparatory to leaving, Joel stood beside 
her and scrutinized her closely. think I can 
finish that picture to-morrow,” he said, enthusi¬ 
astically, ignoring his former threat. 

She laughed and rumpled his hair. 

When they had gone, Gregory sighed deeply. 
“I wish I could paint, or do something like 
that.” 

Georgia looked at him thoughtfully. ‘What 
would you like to do, Gregory^” 

‘ J—I don’t know. I don’t seem to be inter¬ 
ested in anything, really.” He watched her. 
‘‘Is there anything the matter^” 

“I have something to tell you.” 

“What?” . But even as he spoke the ques¬ 
tion, the answer occurred to him. He knew 
now what had caused Georgia’s preoccupation. 
“Tell me,” he urged, and sat down opposite 
her. 

“There doesn’t seem to be much doubt that 
I’m going to have a baby next summer.” 

Gregory dug at the arm of his chair with his 
finger nail. He wondered vaguely that he was 
not thinking of the purport of this announce¬ 
ment, instead of blankly awaiting emotions 
which did not come. 

“That means, of course, that sooner or later 
I’ll have to give up my job.” 

“Yes.” He wondered whether Georgia 
would be disappointed that he showed no en¬ 
thusiasm, no sudden burst of affection. He 


COMMENCEMENT 


338 

considered walking across to her and sitting on 
the arm of her chair, but he made no move¬ 
ment. He preferred to sit where he was so that 
he might watch her eyes and her lips as she 
spoke. Somehow, as he looked at her, he felt 
that he was viewing a tragedy—or perhaps a 
comedy—in which he was in no way concerned 
and only casually interested. 

‘‘Of course,” she went on, “we have enough 
in the bank to take care of the immediate ex¬ 
penses connected with having a child, but— 
well, as Mr. Frail said to-night, ‘one has to 
live.’ ” She smiled, a little nervously it seemed 
to Gregory. “Do you think the bookstore is 
going to be a success finally*?” 

“No.” 

“I’m afraid not, too.” 

“I’ll have to get something else to do.” 
Realization had reached him now. He thrust 
his hands into his pockets and gazed at the 
floor. There would have to be some action, 
initiative. “We’ve got to have more money 
now. I’ll have to find something. I’ll close 
up the store and go out and look.” 

“Have you anything in mind?” 

“No—nothing. I’ll have to look around.” 
He derived a certain amount of comfort from 
the prospective action of looking, as if this, 
course in itself solved his problems. 

“Where will you look?” 


COMMENCEMENT ^39 

“I don’t know yet.” He frowned im¬ 
patiently. “Fll have to think it over first.” 

^ “We’ve still got time. I’m not going to ad¬ 
vise you, but I wouldn’t take just anything, if 
I were you. You’d better decide what you want 
first. Perhaps you’d better not close up the 
store until you find something else.” 

“But I can’t keep the store open and look at 
the same time.” 

“You could close it for a few hours when 
you had any definite place to go.” 

“I don’t want to do that. I’ll never get any¬ 
thing that way. Anyhow, I’ve got to look 
around for some one to buy out the stock I have. 
I’ll have to arrange about geting rid of this 
before I can take another job.” 

“You do what you think best, Gregory, but I 
wish you wouldn’t take the attitude that I’m 
ruining your life.” Georgia spoke pointedly. 

“But I’m not-” 

“After all, our situation is just as much your 
fault as mine. If you can make the store pay, 
go ahead and do it. If you can’t, that’s up to 
you.” She stood up. “I know your troubles 
are the most important ones in the world, but, 
after all, other people do have troubles, you 
know.” She walked into the kitchen. 

Gregory did not speak; he did not move. He 
felt that the justice of her reproach was unas¬ 
sailable. He heard her moving about in the 
kitchen. He longed to go out to her, but a deep 



340 


COMMENCEMENT 


sense of shame held him motionless. He had 
failed her at a time when she most needed his 
sympathy; now the time was past. He forgot 
his own problems. . . . 

Gregory lay on his back, staring at the 
shadowy ceiling. He believed that Georgia, 
beside him, was asleep, and he did not wish to 
disturb her. On the other hand, his nerves 
were taut, and sleep seemed out of the ques¬ 
tion; he longed to change his position, to turn 
over. At all events, his selfish thoughtlessness 
could not have hurt her deeply, otherwise she 
would not have fallen asleep so readily. His 
own worries protruded again through the tur¬ 
moil of his thoughts. He had started out 
bravely with the bookstore, and, only a little 
over three months after he had opened it, he had 
failed. All his fine talk about not wanting to 
make money was foolish twaddle—blah-blah. 
The bird peered stonily at him from the dark 
corner of the room. Why had he been fool 
enough to lose his job with Mr. Blooker? With 
only a little more effort he could have held it- 
He might go back, tell Mr. Blooker that he was 
sorry, that he had been a bad boy, that at last 
he had learned wisdom. What could he do? 
He was fitted for nothing. He must shake off 
that overwhelming fear lest his future re¬ 
semble that of Mr. Prail. . . . 

Faintly he could see Georgia’s long hand 


COMMENCEMENT 


341 

resting on the bed cover. As always, it ex¬ 
pressed sureness and capability to him. Her 
mind held thoughts of him which he could 
never know. Already she had begun to think 
critically of him, to analyze his weaknesses and 
resent them. Now that they were to have a 
child, her thoughts had undoubtedly turned to 
the future, to the judging of his ability to make 
their lives secure and comfortable. His own 
life had become woven into a network of othei* 
lives, all interdependent. His own desires had 
become identified with that scathing epithet 
‘"selfish.” Every night he would have Georgia 
lying beside him, weighing him critically, meas¬ 
uring his actions by her own standards. The 
future rushed ruthlessly into the past. He must 
plunge into that future and scramble blindly 
for money, comforts, current successes. He 
tried to visualize the baby and its presence, but 
the imagination was dry of emotion. Where 
should he turn? Where should he look for 
work? Paying work? Work with the glow of 
a future? What a fool he had been to let that 
job slide through his fingers! There was no 
escape from the net. The metaphor hovered 
tenaciously in his mind, and, acting upon a 
frantic impulse, he turned jerkily in bed. 

“I thought you were asleep, Gregory.” 

“No, Fve been thinking. Did I wake you 
up?” 


COMMENCEMENT 


342 

‘‘No.” 

“I—” he hesitated and placed his hand on 
hers—“I suppose it’s too late now to say I’m 
sorry and have it mean much, but I am. I 
don’t think I’m really selfish, only-” 

“Oh, it’s all right. I was a bit nervous, that’s 
all. You mustn’t worry so much. After all, 
you know, lots of people do have babies.” 

“As I think of it, I wasn’t worrying about 
that.” He paused. “What do you think of 
me?’ 

“I love you.” 

“I don’t mean that, exactly. What do you 
think of me really?’ 

“Well, I don’t think you’ve shown the proper 
spirit about our expected offspring.” 

He sighed. It would be impossible, of 
course, ever to know. But of what was he 
afraid*? That her knowledge of him would be 
distorted*? Obviously that was not it. Then 
was he afraid to have her know the truths He 
tried to evade the deduction, but he could not 
quite succeed. If he would keep her estimate 
of him high, he must make continual effort. 
He must frankly solve this new difficulty which 
the coming of the baby engendered. There must 
be no evasion. The time had come when he 
must act. At last he had been kicked into the 
struggle. No longer could he hover indeci¬ 
sively on the edge of reality. He was to join 
the hurrying feet. 



COMMENCEMENT 343 

*‘Are you going to sleep, Gregory?” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“Good night.” 

“Good night.” He followed the monotonous 
tramping of feet until he reached sleep. 


CHAPTER TWELVE 


Gregory slammed the outer door and ran up 
the steps in front of the bookstore. He hesi¬ 
tated a moment; then he turned and walked 
east. That he was proceeding with no definite 
goal in mind, was apparent in his shambling 
gait. He had been urged to action only by a 
desire to get away from the now empty and 
ghostly bookstore—from himself, even, if such 
a feat were possible. Most of the morning he 
had spent in poring over columns upon columns 
of advertisements headed: '‘Help, Male, 
Wanted.” The result had been nothing but a 
terribly vivid realization of his utter lack of 
fitness for any particular branch of work. Ex¬ 
perience, experience — the word pounded 
through the pages, reiterating sardonically his 
helplessness, the folly of the life he had here¬ 
tofore led. Finally, in something of a panic, 
he had thrown aside the newspaper, seized his 
hat, and hurried out into the street. 

The previous day the contents of the shop 
had been carted away by a dealer in second¬ 
hand books. The loss of nearly two hundred 
dollars hardly impressed Gregory as he watched 
the shelves emptying, but the collapse, the 
draining of the future he had dreamily filled, 





COMMENCEMENT 345 

left him morbidly despondent. The memory of 
the hurrying feet, of the endless lines of words, 
was erased from his mind. When he thought 
of the bookstore, it was of the days he had spent 
in arranging it, of the evening when he had 
first waited to see Georgia’s feet turn and de¬ 
scend the steps. His thoughts held the sadness 
of ending an old career; there was nothing in 
them of the vigor of beginning a new. He 
nervously increased his pace in his desire to 
leave far behind him the shell of his hopes. 

For more than a week, now, Georgia had 
been waiting for something to happen. Never 
had there been the slightest trace of im¬ 
patience or discontent in her queries about the 
future, but Gregory knew that she was waiting 
expectantly. How long would her patience 
endure? She herself was deft, quiet, capable, 
somewhat aloof, but behind all this there 
glowed a brilliant spark of temper—passion, 
Gregory called it during his more affectionate 
moods. How much waiting would it take to 
fan this spark into a blaze of resentment? The 
memory of Mrs. Frail’s bitterness echoed 
stridently through his thoughts. Always the 
deepest worry over his career came from the 
relation of that career to his life with Georgia. 
There was, perhaps, something of stage fright 
in this morning’s panic. 

At Fifth Avenue he paused and looked 
about him. Farther uptown, the colossal stone 


COMMENCEMENT 


346 

square of the Trojan Hotel loomed up through 
the smoky haze into which the Avenue disap¬ 
peared. At least, thought Gregory, this land¬ 
mark to his failure was not insignificant. He 
recalled with annoyance the platitudes he had 
written concerning it, the drab exposition of it 
as a hotel containing a certain number of rooms 
and those vague appurtenances called ‘'all mod¬ 
ern improvements.” Certainly, if he had tried, 
he might have thought of something interest¬ 
ing, if not startling, to say about the hotel. 

His mind still on that failure, he started off 
in the direction of the Trojan Hotel. It would 
not be unpleasant to believe that he had failed 
because he was too unworldly to make money, 
but that explanation did not fit the case. He 
had believed it for a time, but the truth was 
slowly pervading his mind. He had failed be¬ 
cause he lacked ideas, originality. Even had 
Mr. Blooker been willing to read that booklet, 
Gregory knew he would have lost his job. 
There was nothing in his exposition to make it 
worth the price of his salary. And to these 
thoughts was added the bitter realization that 
he possessed the ability to write a booklet that 
would draw praise from Mr. Blooker. Why 
had he thrown away that chanced But there 
was not much point now to thinking about it. 
That chance had been the last. What would 
happen if he should go back to Mr. Blooker 
now? 


COMMENCEMENT 347 

Gregory stood upon the curb opposite the 
Trojan Hotel. He tilted back his head and 
gazed up at the long rows of glinting windows. 
A man hung in front of one of them, cleaning 
it. Gregory imagined himself in the same posi¬ 
tion and was conscious of a fleeting sensation of 
dizziness. Did people who worked at that sort 
of task ever fall^? Probably, but the event 
would be of little importance. He might have 
worked something about that phase of a large 
building into his booklet. He sighed. 

Gregory felt that he would like to visit the 
Trojan Hotel again. What could he have said 
about the place that would have been original % 
The question persisted. He could view the 
hotel objectively now, without apprehension. 
Its sheer weight no longer oppressed him. He 
crossed the street. On either side of the stal¬ 
wart portal stood a tall gorilla-like negro 
dressed in uniform of blue and gold—like eu¬ 
nuchs in a harem, thought Gregory. The 
curved glass door sped around noiselessly, and 
Gregory was standing in the lobby of the hotel. 
He looked down a long, broad avenue bor¬ 
dered by towering potted palms. He crossed 
the tiled floor and sat down in one of the 
leather-upholstered chairs. 

In efficiency of management, omnipresent 
comfort, and magnitude, the Trojan Hotel was 
designed to be a landmark in the progress of 
hotel building. Its rooms were fire, noise, 


COMMENCEMENT 


348 

germ, and complaint proof. Its intricate 
mechanism whirred precisely, powerfully, with 
no rasping or jarring. One but touched a but¬ 
ton, an enameled, jewel-like button, and an irn- 
personal, agile genie appeared, ready to do one’s 
bidding. In the dining room food seemed to 
come from nowhere to the tables. The kitchen, 
one might believe, was in some distant part of 
the city; never did any of the mutely swinging 
doors give vent to the faintest clatter of 
crockery or the vaguest snatch of odor. It was 
to be wondered whether any two pieces of china 
or glassware in the hotel had ever come in con¬ 
tact with each other. Yet the kitchens were 
there, and that hiddden power, the manage¬ 
ment, cordially invited inspection of the airy, 
sunny laboratories in which the food was pre¬ 
pared. Externally, this quiet, vast comfort 
was protected by towering walls of concrete— 
concrete molded into stern horizontal and ver¬ 
tical lines—lines which were broken only by 
the eight towering Doric pillars bearing the 
pediment. Within was to be found the lithe, 
languorous comfort of the Orient; without, 
classical purity as developed by Pilgrim firm¬ 
ness and efficiency—a square, lean jaw shield¬ 
ing sensuousness. 

What could he have said about such a place? 
Beyond description—Oriental luxury—the last 
word—acme—epitome —plus ultra. No 
wonder Blooker had fired him. He had written 


COMMENCEMENT 


349 

nothing but pages of banality. He yawned and 
lit a cigarette. What would happen, he won¬ 
dered, to a place like this when it became old 
and obsolete? A hundred years hence this 
hotel would probably have already been torn 
down—a bigger, more modern one in its place 
—another last word. The thought was ex¬ 
hausting. Endless building and rebuilding to¬ 
ward what ? Perfection, but always perfection 
that reality and time proved to be imperfect. 
Toy houses torn down and built up again. An 
endless, monotonous treading of the mill. 
Clear-eyed young men needed to keep the mill 
grinding; new mill wheels constructed to in¬ 
crease the demand for clear-eyed young men; 
and love to keep the world supplied with clear- 
eyed young men. It would be strange to have a 
son. To have a life to direct and mold. He 
would prefer a son to a daughter. Yet, why 
should he want to bring anyone else into the 
world, to become entangled in such a snarl? 
Or his son might be like Jonathan PraiFs. 
Gregory grunted and gazed up at the ceiling. 

Trojan—Troy. Why had it never occurred 
to him before that this hotel was named after 
the ancient city? He could perhaps have used 
that idea. Arma virumque cano. . . . No, 
that had to do with the destruction of Troy. 
He struggled to recall the history he had 
learned. Excavations on the site of ancient 
Troy, the Hill of Hessarlik, have discovered 


COMMENCEMENT 


350 

nine strata, indicating that nine successive cities 
had occupied the spot. The city to which 
Helen was taken, if he remembered correctly, 
occupied, counting from the bottom, the sixth 
stratum. Supposing ancient Troy existed four 
thousand years ago, 2000 B. C. In the year A. 
D. 5924 would archseologists and historians be 
the only ones interested in the various strata of 
which New York might be one? Would they 
be picking over the ruins of the magnificent 
Trojan Hotel and sorting out the most interest¬ 
ing fragments to put in museums? Or would 
the hotel be proof against time? Or it might 
be superseded, of course. Comfort sheltered by 
steel and concrete. . . . 

Without thought of the inutility of his occu¬ 
pation, Gregory drifted into a contemplation 
of the booklet he might have written, built 
upon a framework of historical illusion and 
prophetical conjecture. The form of the work 
became more and more clear-cut and definite. 
A pleasant sensation of satisfaction colored his 
thoughts. He fashioned, word for word, an 
opening sentence. At length he sighed and 
stood up. He had perceived the uselessness of 
his meditations. It was too bad he had not hit 
upon this scheme a few months before. 

Abruptly he sat down again. What would 
Blooker say if he wrote the booklet now and 
brought it to the office? As Gregory considered 
the idea, it appealed strongly to him. He tried 


COMMENCEMENT 351 

to put aside the thought with the assurance that 
it was too late now, but conjectures as to what 
might happen spurred his imagination. He 
would never find another job as good as that 
one had been. He would lose nothing by try¬ 
ing to win it back. His mind reverted to 
thoughts of the booklet. He felt that Mr. 
Blooker would like it; that the idea was 
original. With increasing facility, his hopes 
triumphed over his doubts. The scheme be¬ 
came more plausible. He seized his hat and 
hurried out of the hotel. 

As Gregory walked back home, his step was 
longer, more rhythmical, than it had been when 
he left. His eyes still indicated preoccupation, 
but in their keenness it was apparent that now, 
instead of rushing away from the past, he was 
striding toward the future. For the time he 
was succeeding in his efforts to keep his mind 
on the romance and beauty of vastness and 
power, and in diverting his imagination from 
the sturdy practicality of Blooker and Klint. 
When thoughts of Blooker intervened, Gregory 
recalled the fatherly glint in the man’s eye. Of 
one thing he was sure: the idea of coming back, 
of being unwilling to submit, would appeal to 
Blooker. Of course another booklet had al¬ 
ready been written—^probably printed—but it 
was not so much by the usefulness of his work 
as by the semblance of tenacity that he must 
win himself again into Blooker’s favor. There 


352 COMMENCEMENT 

was a hope. He jerked his thoughts back to the 
perfect mechanism of the Trojan Hotel and the 
appeal of the gigantic in time and space. 

At home, he drew a chair up to the table and 
began writing. He wrote rapidly and steadily, 
pausing only occasionally to unravel a thread 
of thought. Late that afternoon he was still 
writing. He paid no attention to the conti¬ 
nuity, to the form of his composition. That 
could come later. The important task now was 
to express his thoughts before they should be¬ 
come entangled with doubt. Once, he gathered 
up the sheets he had covered and began reading 
them, but after a few sentences he tossed them 
aside and picked up his pencil. He must plow 
ahead to the end before risking the discovery of 
a suggestion for discouragement. His main 
concern was to keep his thoughts from the far- 
off goal and from the hindrances to his at¬ 
taining it. 

He heard the outer door close. He started 
up, collected his papers, and stuffed them be¬ 
hind a row of books on the mantelpiece. When 
Georgia entered the room, Gregory was stand¬ 
ing by the table and trying to appear uncon¬ 
cerned. 

“What’s up^” she asked, looking at him with 
interest. 

“Why, nothing. What do you mean?” 

“You look as if you expected the house to 
blow up at any minute.” 


COMMENCEMENT 


353 

‘1 don’t know why. There isn’t anything.” 
He sat down and tried to yawn. 

“Have you got a job?” 

“No. No sign of one.” The temptation to 
tell of his scheme was strong, but the fear of 
raising false hopes in Georgia was even greater. 
Georgia knew Mr. Blooker. She would per- 
cieve the innumerable flaws in the plan. More¬ 
over, Gregory felt that verbal expression of the 
idea would somehow render it grotesque. He 
helped Georgia prepare diimer, and after it had 
been eaten he insisted that he wash the dishes. 
His only thought was that he must keep doing 
something. He did not notice the puzzled ex¬ 
pression on Georgia’s face as she watched him. 
They had been seated only a few minutes after 
the housework was done, when Gregory closed 
the book he was reading and stood up. 

“Let’s go out somewhere,” he said. 

“What is the matter, Gregory? Why are 
you so restless? Something’s happened, I 
know.” 

“No, there isn’t anything.” He looked at 
his watch. “It’s only half past seven. Let’s go 
to some show.” 

Georgia protested their poverty, but in the 
end Gregory had his way. 

Late that night, as he turned out the light 
and slid into bed, Gregory sighed contentedly. 
He had resisted his frequent impulses to answer 
Georgia’s questions as to what was the matter. 


COMMENCEMENT 


354 

and his interest in the Trojan Hotel had in no 
way diminished. 

Another day saw the completion of the first 
draft of Gregory’s romance of the Trojan 
Hotel. The morning thereafter he rented a 
typewriter and installed it in a corner of the 
empty, memory-laden bookstore. Then began 
a three-day struggle between assurance and 
despair. Twice he swept the pages he had writ¬ 
ten from his desk, but each time, after the lapse 
of a very few minutes, he collected them and 
recommenced his work. He had expressed his 
fancies concerning the Trojan Hotel, and that 
expression seemed somehow to rob them of life 
and vitality. His thoughts reached more and 
more to the personality of Mr. Blooker and the 
order for which he stood. He paced up and 
down the store, futilely trying to ignore the 
empty shelves. . . . 

When he finally pushed a clip over the sheets 
of his completed version of the booklet, he 
wondered how he had managed ever to follow 
the work through to its end. In retrospect the 
steps leading to this achievement seemed gigan¬ 
tic. Whence had sprung his hope? At all 
events it was vitiated now. 

He lackadaisically folded the booklet, 
stowed it in his pocket, and put on his hat. He 
walked directly to the offices of the Blooker 
Advertising Agency, but he did not immediately 
enter the building. His heart was pounding 


COMMENCEMENT 


355 

too rapidly. His lips were dry and he knew 
that, if he were to speak now, his voice would 
sound husky. He walked around the block 
three times and smoked as many cigarettes, but 
without achieving any appreciable relaxation 
of his nerves. He stood beside the entry and 
endeavored to compose his thoughts philo¬ 
sophically. After all, Mr. Blooker was not an 
ogre. Even if Blooker drove him away, he 
would not be in a worse position than he had 
been a few days ago. But these arguments, 
spun out elaborately, brought no calm. 

Color. Joel’s theory seemed to have little 
truth in it. If he walked into the office now, 
he would have the attitude of a whipped dog. 
This frank admittance of his funk partly 
cleared Gregory’s confused thoughts. Was 
there any real reason that he must submit him¬ 
self slavishly to Mr. Blooker, even though he 
did return to the office? After all, it was color 
that he needed. Joel had been right. Whether 
he won his job back or not, he could come out of 
that office contented if he could hold to his 
courage; if he could keep himself, his person¬ 
ality, from paling before Mr. Blooker. It was , 
not the job, it was not Mr. Blooker’s philos¬ 
ophy, that he must fear; it was the uncertainty 
of his own—his own color. 

Abruptly Gregory snapped his cigarette into 
the street and entered the building. He 
stepped determinedly into the elevator and as 


356 COMMENCEMENT 

the car rose he called the number of the floor 
with unnecessary clarity. He stepped into the 
office, nodded pleasantly to the girl at the 
switchboard, and told her he wanted to see Mr. 
Blooker. 

He must drive out this fear. It was not 
easy, and only by doing what this fear 
prompted him not to do could he succeed. Fear 
had driven him here and there, fear of the 
future, fear of what people would think of him, 
fear lest he be submerged in pettiness, fear of 
the vast machine from which there seemed no 
escape. As he waited, the door of the office 
was opened and he caught a glimpse of his old 
desk. He drew in his breath. A strange man 
was sitting at the desk. If only he could get 
that desk back again! He heard Klint’s 
resonant voice and stifled a sudden desire to 
avoid meeting Klint. He must practice meet¬ 
ing Klint and people of his sort. There was a 
difference now. Six months ago his task, as he 
had conceived it, was to mold himself into a 
Klint-like personality. He had despised Klint 
even then, but now, added to his disdain, was a 
desire to earn a comfortable living and, at the 
same time, hold himself from Klinfs—re¬ 
ligion. That was the word—religion. 

“Mr. Thrumm.” 

He started and turned to the switchboard. 

“Mr. Blooker says for you to come into his 
office.” 


COMMENCEMENT 


357 

Timidly at first, then with a vigorous pull, 
Gregory opened the door to Mr. Blooker’s office. 

“Well, Thrumm!” Mr. Blooker reached his 
hand across the desk.” 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Blooker.” It would 
take months of practice to keep his voice easy 
and natural under such circumstances. 

“Sit down.” Mr. Blooker nodded toward 
the chair beside his desk. “I suppose you want 
a recommendation from me.” 

Gregory cleared his throat. “No. I want 
my old job back.” That was the way—speak 
directly, tersely. He forced himself to return 
Mr. Blooker’s startled gaze. 

“You want your old job back! Do you sup¬ 
pose your place has been vacant all this time*?” 

“No. As a matter of fact, I know there’s 
some one else at my desk.” He reached in his 
pocket and drew forth the copy he had written. 
“I don’t expect you to take me back without 
any reason, of course. You remember I fell 
down on the last thing I had to do—the Tro¬ 
jan Hotel booklet*? Well, I’ve studied the 
hotel and I’ve written another booklet.” 

“Why, the Trojan booklet’s been written 
long ago! It’s in print now. A place like that 
doesn’t wait months for what it wants.” 

“I know that. I wrote this merely to show 
what I could do.” 

“Let me see it.” For the first time, Mr. 
Blooker showed a faint ray of interest. He 


COMMENCEMENT 


358 

took the sheaf of papers and glanced slowly 
through them, reading a paragraph here and 
there. “Looks as though it had possibilities,’’ 
he said, tossing the manuscript on his desk. He 
studied Gregory curiously. “Listen, Thrumm, 
suppose I should take you back, what reason 
would I have to believe that I wouldn’t have to 
fire you again in a few weeks*?” 

“Well, I wouldn’t have wasted my time on 
that”—^he nodded toward the booklet—“if I 
hadn’t determined to do better work. And I 
know just why you fired me last time. I think 
you were right. I wouldn’t come back just to 
get fired again.” He spoke without hesitation, 
for he realized that every word of this speech 
would have a favorable effect on Mr. Blooker. 

“But why should you want to come back 
here?’ 

“I hate to think I failed at the first job I 
ever had.” There were a dozen other reasons, 
he knew, but this was the one which would ap¬ 
peal to Mr. Blooker. 

“What have you been doing since you left 
here?’ 

He hesitated and glanced out of the window. 
This confession would offset the advantage so 
far gained. “I bought a bookstore. I thought 
I’d like to be in business for myself. But I dis¬ 
covered there was no money in it.” This state¬ 
ment was weak, but at least it was the truth. 

“Humph! Failed in that, too, did you?’ 


COMMENCEMENT 3 59 

'‘No, I didn’t fail. I saw my mistake, that’s 
all.” 

"Money can be made out of a bookstore, I 
believe. It’s been done.” 

"With plenty of capital and experience it 
might. I didn’t have either.” 

Mr. Blooker picked up the booklet again and 
read the first page. "You seem to have ideas,” 
he said, meditatively. "That blah-blah bird 
was a decided success, and this business about 
Troy is catchy. As a matter of fact, I never 
have been satisfied with the booklet we finally 
did give them. I don’t think they were, either, 
but they had to have something quick. That’s 
what builds up a business—something new. 
The day is past when you can sell things by 
showing a picture of a pretty girl or printing 
testimonials. We’ve got to have educated 
men. . . .” 

While Mr. Blooker described the problems 
of modem advertising, there occurred to 
Gregory lines from the ^‘Ode to a Nightingale^* 
which Mr. Frail had once recited to him: 

“The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan—** 

His nervousness was dissipated. He discovered 
a fund of sardonic amusement in pondering 
these lines while Mr. Blooker made his speech. 
With fear conquered, it might be decidedly 
amusing to write advertisements, to wallow in 


COMMENCEMENT 


360 

Mr. Blocker’s philosophy and yet keep his sense 
of humor, of proportion. He felt confident 
that he could write startlingly unusual adver¬ 
tisements. 

“Supposing I did give you your job back, 
Thrumm—on strict probation—^how much do 
you think I ought to pay you*?” 

Intuitively Gregory saw that on this ques¬ 
tion hung much of the weight of Mr. Blocker’s 
decision. “If I earned fifty dollars a week 
when I was worth practically nothing, I ought 
to earn more than that now.” 

Mr. Blooker laughed good-humoredly. “At 
least you don’t seem as scared to death as you 
always used to. All right, you can come back 
if you want to. I’d like to see what you can do 
with a new garter account we have. If you can 
find something new to write about garters, 
you’ll make good. I’ll pay you your fifty a 
week until you finish that job, and after that 
I’ll pay you either nothing or seventy-five. 
How’s that*?” 

“That’s all I ask. Thank you, Mr. Blooker. 

«I-He looked thoughtfully out of the 

window. “How would an idea like this work— 
about the garters, I mean. Have a picture of a 
man fully clothed, and under it something 
about not having to show him in underwear to 
prove that he wears these garters. The smooth¬ 
ness of his sock shows it. Of course, that’s 



COMMENCEMENT 


361 


only the rough idea, but it just occurred to me. 
It’s different, anyway.” 

‘It’s a damned good idea, Thrumm. 
They’re all usually walking around in under¬ 
wear. The difference alone would be striking.” 

“The more clothes he had on the clearer it 
would be, I think.” 

“Yes. Work it up.” Mr. Blooker rubbed 
his hands together. “If you return to life with 
ideas like that, you can gaze out the window all 
you like. What you want to work up is the 
contrast between the old idea of people in un¬ 
derwear and this idea. Get Cooper to draw a 
picture of a man loaded with clothes. Just that 
and the name of the garter might be enough. 
Good stuff. We’ll get something out of that. 
Glad you wanted to come back, Thrumm> 
You’ve got the right spirit. Never give in. 
That’s the way to succeed in anything.” Mr. 
Blooker slapped his desk. “You’ve got the 
right attitude toward business. You’ll be a 
big man if you keep at it. I was right, after all. 
I told you you had the right stuff in you.” He 
paused thoughtfully. ‘T wish Miss Rossby 
would hurry up and grow her hair and come 
back. You knew about that, didn’t you*?” 

“Yes.” Gregory smiled. “I’m afraid she 
never will. I married her.” 

“You’re married to Miss Rossby!” 

“Yes.” 

“I congratulate you.” He shook Gregory’s 


COMMENCEMENT 


362 

hand. ‘‘You’ve got a wife that’s worth having. 
One of the best secretaries I ever had. You 
can’t lie down on the job and keep her, my 
boy.” The fatherly glint was bright in Mr. 
Blooker’s eyes. “That’s why you stared out 
of the window so much, I suppose. You werd 
in love.” He laughed boisterously. 

At five o’clock that afternoon Georgia found 
Gregory awaiting her at the entrance to the 
office building wherein she worked. She started 
upon seeing him, and before he could speak she 
said, “You’ve got a job.” 

“What makes you think so*?” 

“Oh, lots of things. Your meeting me, your 
expression. Tell me about it.” 

“Guess where I got it.” 

“With your father^” 

“No.” 

“Well, how can I tell, then?” 

“You know the place well.” 

“I know it well ? Oh, tell me, please!” 

“Blooker.” 

“Blooker! You’re going back there? OH, 
Gregory!” There was consternation in her 
voice. 

“What’s the matter? Why shouldn’t I?” 

“But you hated the place so, and everything 
it stood for. Why did you do it? I didn’t 
think he’d ever take you again, anyway.” 


COMMENCEMENT 


363 

Gregory, conscious of a sudden deflation of 
his triumph, sketchily told her the story of his 
inspiration at the Trojan Hotel, of his work, 
and of his interview with Mr. Blooker. 

‘‘But you hated Mr. Blooker so, Gregory.” 

“He isn’t so bad—better than the average, 
anyway. I thought you’d be enthusiastic.” 

“I—I suppose I ought to be, but—I can’t 
help remembering all those things you said the 
night you asked me to marry you.” 

“But this doesn’t change it in any way. 
We’ve got to get some money somewhere, and 
I’ve got to earn it.” 

“I thought you’d get something literary, 


“Oh, damn things literary! Everybody who 
thinks himself a little more intelligent than the 
average can’t become literary. I’m just as sick 
of that twaddle as—as I am of Blocker’s. If 
I become a young Klint, well— But I can’t, 
even if I want to. I’m not afraid of it any 
more, anyway.” 

“Were you as enthusiastic as this when you 
first went into Blocker’s office T’ 

“No.” 

“I hope it won’t be the same thing over 
again.” 

“It won’t. If I find I’m not making good. 
I’ll leave before he has a chance to fire me.” 

They walked several blocks in silence. 
Gregory, in considerable mental frenzy, strove 



COMMENCEMENT 


364 

to reconstruct the adventurous, carefree atti¬ 
tude he had shortly before assumed toward 
business. But Georgia had spread havoc in his 
thoughts. He had expected her to be elated; 
he had felt sure that she would accept the news 
as proof of his ability, his resourcefulness. His 
motive, naturally, had not been unalloyed de¬ 
sire to bring her comfort. They had to have 
money. But he had willingly sacrificed every¬ 
thing. Or had it been a sacrifice? Even with¬ 
out her, wouldn’t he eventually have followed 
a similar course? Again he was analyzing his 
thoughts, pondering over distracting possibili¬ 
ties. The direct line of his determination was 
bent and twisted, but he struggled resolutely to 
straighten it again. 

“Perhaps it’s best, after all,” observed 
Georgia, uncertainly. 

“I think it is.” 

“You weren’t really happy with the book¬ 
store.” 

Gregory made no reply. Even as he realized 
the truth of her assertion, he unconsciously 
argued to himself against it. The happy days 
stood forth so clearly. Georgia, home from 
work, smiling at him through the window as 
she turned in at the door—the afternoon he had 
lost himself so completely in that old book. 
His mind ignored the passing feet. “We might 
furnish that front room and stay where we are,” 
he suggested, finally. “I don’t think we could 


COMMENCEMENT 365 

find anything as cheap that we would like as 
well.” 

“We have had good times there, haven’t we, 
Gregory*?” She slipped her arm through his. 

He smiled at her. “Let’s go out somewhere 
to-night and celebrate. Let’s go out to dinner.” 

“All right. But I want to go home first and 
change my clothes for this great occasion.” 

They walked along silently and happily. 

“I wonder,” said Gregory, “whether we’ll be 
celebrating a victory or a defeat. It’s so hard 
to tell. In a way. I’ve been beaten into submis¬ 
sion. But on the other hand, your parents and 
mine will say that I’m acquiring a little sense. 
Which do you think it is?” 

“It’s hard to say. After all, you’re only be¬ 
ginning. But, as you say, you’ll never become 
a second Klint.” 

“Oh, I suppose I’ll go on worrying in the 
same old way!” 

They turned a corner and walked down the 
street toward their home. Suddenly, Gregory 
stopped and grasped Georgia’s arm. “Wait a 
minute.” He pointed down the street. “Isn’t 
that Mr. Frail down there in front of the 
house?” 

A tall, stoop-shouldered figure emerged from 
the dusk down the street and strode slowly 
across a patch of light. 

“Yes, I think so. He’s been to call on us, 
probably. If we hurry we can catch him.” 


COMMENCEMENT 


366 

“No—wait.” He held her arm. “I—I think 
rd rather not see him just now. Fd rather wait 
till later—some other time.” 

They walked slowly along, and from time 
to time, as he passed under a street light, they 
could see Jonathan PraiFs bony, loose-jointed 
figure, ambling indefinitely along the sidewalk. 
His hands were clasped behind his back, and 
his head drooped forward so that they could see 
only the top of his hat. 

“I feel sort of sorry for him, Gregory.” 

“Yes. I do, too.” 


THE END 


Harder Fiction 


JULIE CANE By Harvey O’Higgins 

The first novel of a distinguished short-story writer and psycholo¬ 
gist, who is one of the greatest stylists now writing in America. 
A masterpiece of character-drawing and dramatic narrative, “Juhe 
Cane” tells the story of the daughter of a shabby, eccentric httle 
grocery-store keeper, trained by him in extraordinary self-confidence 
and idealism, and of her desperate and triumphant battle for the 
mastery of her own life. 

TALK By Emanie Sachs 

Crushed between the millstones of two generations—deprived of 
the right to live her own life by the narrow public opinion of one 
age, then scorned for failure by the next—such was the experience 
of Delia Morehouse. It is a tragedy which will find a response in 
the hearts of many whose lives have been lived among the changing 
thought and standards of the past thirty years. 

THE TRIUMPH OF GALLIC By W. L. George 

Mr. George’s piercing and honest portrayal of character is at its 
best in this study of a thoroughly mean and selfish man, and of the 
women who touch his life. Holyoake Tarrant’s career, from a 
hawker to a millionaire and back again, is set forth unforgettably 
by this master psychologist. 

THE GAY CONSPIRATORS By Philip Curtis 

In this delightful book Mr. Curtis has done something more than 
tell a baffling and breathlessly exciting modern mystery yarn. He 
has written it with such a light and delicious humor, and with such 
eureness and grace, that the most discriminating reader is charmed 
as well as entertained. 

THE ABLE McLAUGHLINS By Margaret Wilson 

The Harper Prize Novel 

This story of a group of Scotch pioneers in Iowa is an extraordi¬ 
nary combination of best-seller, prize-winner, and first novel that 
no reader of our native fiction should miss. ^Ht stands among the 
finest contributions to the year’s fiction, worthy to l^e for innu¬ 
merable seasons for its honesty, its simplicity and its native 
power .”—Philadelphia Record. 

HARPER & BROTHERS 


T80 








Harper Fiction 


PALLIETER By Felix Timmermans 

^^This delightful story by the leading Flemish writer of the day 
has had an extraordinary success all over Europe, and has b^n 
published in many languages. This admirable English translation 
preserves all the gaiety, the beauty and the flavor of the original. 
It tells the rollicking story of the adventures, the love and marriage 
of a gay and lovable man who gets all the joy possible out of his life. 

PICARO By Charles Nordoff 

A gallant tale of modern romance, told in polished and sparkling 
prose. The hero's adventures cariy him from the picturesque Cali¬ 
fornia home of his ancestors to wartime France and back, and into 
affairs with two women who are among the unforgettable portraits 
of fiction. 

COMMENCEMENT By Ernest Brace 

Level-headed honesty and striking characterization make this 
strong first novel remarkable. The story of a young man’s struggle 
to adjust himself to life in a great city, ‘‘Commencement” rings 
true to the experience of innumerable young people entering on 
the adventure of life; it is keenly and disturbingly real. 

WIDENING WATERS By Margaret Hill McCarter 

All the play of virile American life at its best is in this tense story 
of pioneer ranch life in the mountains of northern New Mexico. 
It is a tale of love, intrigue and hatred against the larger back¬ 
ground of struggle with the forces of nature. 

THE LANTERN ON THE-PLOW 

By George Agnew Chamberlain 

Like Sheila Kaye-Smith’s “Sussex Gorse,” this is an epic of the 
soil. Somber, ruthless, the old New Jersey farm dominates the lives 
of two generations that live and toil upon it. Dramatic, nearly 
tragic, is the story of Eunice Sherborne, with her brilliant mind and 
repressed emotions, and of her two children, Drake and Jo,— 
powerful, but lightened by character drawing of prismatic subtlety. 

HARPER & BROTHERS 


TOO 









i 


i 
























